vy lids.

"Ask him--that's all," she replied shortly.

She drew her furs around her shoulders preparatory to departure, but
Diana stepped in front of her, laying a detaining hand on her arm.

"What do you mean?" she demanded hotly. "Are you implying now that Max
is going about under a false name? I hate your hints! Always, always
you've tried to insinuate something against Max. . . . No!"--as the
Russian endeavoured to free herself from her clasp--"No! You shan't
leave this house till you've answered my question. You've made an
accusation, and you shall prove it--if I have to bring you face to face
with Max himself!"

"I've made no accusation--merely a suggestion that you should ask him
who he is. And as to bringing me face to face with him--I can assure
you"--there was an inflection of ironical amusement in her light
tones--"no one would be less anxious for such a _denouement_ than Max
Errington himself. Now, good-bye; think over what I've said. And
remember"--mockingly--"Adrienne de Gervais is a bad friend for the man
one loves!"

She flitted through the doorway, and Diana was left to deal as best she
might with the innuendo contained in her speech.

"_Adrienne de Gervais is a bad friend for the man one loves._"

The phrase seemed to crystallise in words the whole vague trouble that
had been knocking at her heart, and she realised suddenly, with a shock
of unbearable dismay, that she was _jealous--jealous of Adrienne_!
Hitherto, she had not in the least understood the feeling of depression
and _malaise_ which had assailed her. She had only known that she felt
restless and discontented when Max was out of her sight, irritated at
the amount of his time which Miss de Gervais claimed, and she had
ascribed these things to the depth of her love for him! But now, with
a sudden flash of insight, engendered by the Russian's dexterous
suggestion, she realised that it was jealousy, sheer primitive jealousy
of another woman that had gripped her, and her young, wholesome,
spontaneous nature recoiled in horrified self-contempt at the
realisation.

Pobs' good counsel came back to her mind: "It seems to me that if you
love him, you needs _must_ trust him." Ah! but that was uttered in
regard to another matter--the secret which shadowed Max's life--and she
_had_ trusted him over that, she told herself. This, this jealousy of
another woman, was an altogether different thing, something which had
crept insidiously i