ving those women money, I know. Yesterday,
when I called to see you, I saw the stub in your chequebook, which was
lying open on the desk in your boudoir. I didn't mean to pry, but I
couldn't help seeing it."

"Well, I'm not letting them starve," was the unashamed admission.

"Cicily," Mrs. Delancy said, with an abrupt transition from one phase of
the subject under consideration to another, "about this matter of you
and Charles separating, I have a suspicion that you are very much like
that highly improper young woman in the French story, who was going to
live with her lover as long as the geranium lasted. And you're going to
live in the house with Charles while his troubles continue. And that
improper young woman used to get up in the night, every night, to water
the geranium, secretly. And you are providing the strikers with food, to
prolong the strike. Humph! You don't want to go." Cicily blushed a
little, but attempted no reply. "You're in love with him--you know you
are!"

The young wife's reserve broke down a little before the keen glance that
accompanied the words.

"I--oh, I'm interested in his spiritual development," she stammered,
weakly. "Anyhow," she added defensively, "he--doesn't know it!"

"Thank heaven, you're still moral!" Mrs. Delancy ejaculated, in accents
of huge relief.

"I think I must be," was the low-spoken admission, "because--because I'm
so unhappy!" The scarlet lips drooped to a tremulous pathos, as she went
on speaking in a voice of poignant feeling. "Oh, Aunt Emma, when I see
Charles so harassed, so tired, so troubled in every way, I just long to
throw my arms around his neck, and to kiss all those hard lines away
from his dear face, and to tell him how much I love him, and how sorry I
am, and how much I want to help him."

"Heaven bless you, child!" Mrs. Delancy exclaimed, surprised and
delighted. "Why don't you, then?"

"Because," came the gloomy explanation, "if I did, I'd be like you."

The old lady was not gratified by this candid defense.

"Humph! Well, you might do worse, if I do say so myself," she declared,
with a toss of her head.

"Of course, you old dear," Cicily agreed, with an air of humility, "in
lots and lots of ways--but--"

"You're obstinate!" came the tart rebuke. "If you're really in love with
him, give in!"

"That's just the trouble," the young wife said. "Because I'm so much in
love with him, I can't give in in this particular. I love him too much
to be