neglected her, a man whose mistaken
sense of dignity kept him away from her!

"I want you," he begged, as they drew towards the close of the meal, "to
treat me, if you will, just a little more confidentially."

She glanced up at him quickly, almost suspiciously.

"What do you mean?"

"You have troubles of which you do not speak," he went on. "If my
friendship is worth anything, it ought to enable me to share those
troubles with you. You have had a little further disagreement with your
husband, I think, and bad luck at the tables. You ought not to let
either of these things depress you too much. Tell me, do you think that
I could help with Sir Henry?"

"No one could help," she replied, her tone unconsciously hardening.
"Henry is obstinate, and it is my firm conviction that he has ceased to
care for me at all. This afternoon--this very afternoon," she went on,
leaning across the table, her voice trembling a little, her eyes very
bright, "I offered to go away with him."

"To leave Monte Carlo?"

"Yes! He refused. He said that he must stay here, for some mysterious
reason. I begged him to tell me what that reason was, and he was silent.
It was the end. He gives me no confidence. He has refused the one effort
I made at reconciliation. I am convinced that it is useless. We have
parted finally."

Draconmeyer tried hard to keep the light from his eyes as he leaned
towards her.

"Dear lady," he said, "if I do not admit that I am sorry--well, there
are reasons. Your husband did well to be mysterious. I can tell you the
reason why he will not leave Monte Carlo. It is because Felicia Roche
makes her debut at the Opera House to-morrow night. There! I didn't mean
to tell you but the whole world knows it. Even now I would not have told
you but for other things. It is best that you know the truth. It is my
firm belief that your husband does not deserve your interest, much more
your affection. If only I dared--"

He paused for a moment. Every word he was compelled to measure.

"Sometimes," he continued, "your condition reminds me so much of my own.
I think that there is no one so lonely in life as I am. For the last few
years Linda has been fading away, physically and mentally. I touch her
fingers at morning and night, we speak of the slight happenings of the
day. She has no longer any mind or any power of sympathy. Her lips are
as cold as her understanding. For that I know she is not to blame, yet
it has left me very lone