son,
Jacquaine would not view it as a temporary fascination. Her soul was not
adapted to the analysis of triviality. She ran away from him.
Husband-like, he was too proud or pig-headed--I won't venture to decide
which--to chase her. Meanwhile, with the perversity of woman, she pined
for him, and haunted every concert room to hear the voice of his art. By
degrees the very intensity of her soul's longing seemed to creep into
his hands and sob its despair through his fingers. His technical skill
came forth through a halo, as though crowned with the fire of her
thought which surrounded and encompassed it. Of course, the world saw
but the amplification of his artistic faculty, and his fortune was made.
Then a beautiful charmer metaphorically wiped away his tears, for he had
yearned for his wife in the enigmatical fashion of weak creatures who
prefer to morally gamble and deplore their losses rather than save.
Jacquaine became poor as well as sorrowful; she pined for her husband's
love, but whenever she would have craved it, other women courted him.
Her talent waned as his expanded. At this juncture Broton, the
millionaire, who had always admired her, gave a big supper to Bohemia,
leaving her husband out. The entertainment was mightily enjoyable, for
Broton's wine was sound and his guests witty. When the fun was fast and
furious I happened to cross a drawing-room in search of brandy and
seltzer. Not a soul was there, but on the verandah I spotted our host
and Jacquaine. The earnestness of his expression and pose were a
contrast to his usual stolidity and to her apparently callous mood. He
was offering to her what showed like a bunch of violets enfolded in a
note. For the moment I fancied she had given acceptance, but suddenly
she sprang from the chair, threw the bouquet and paper on the floor, and
ruthlessly ground her heel into them. Then she stalked away--he
following and remonstrating."

"What happened?"

"Well, in my zest for flower history I leapt forward to rescue this
little bouquet and found that which I imagined to be a note was in fact
a cheque for L8000."

"Signed by him?"

"Yes; made payable to bearer."

"What did you do?"

"What I knew she would have desired. I enclosed it in an envelope
addressed to him and left it before daybreak at his own house."

"Without a word?"

"Without a word."

"And this is the bouquet?"

"Yes. It is the only souvenir I have of one who was dear to me. Whether
I loved bec