oses something
silk, and I don't believe he's ever owned anything silk in all his life;
unless perhaps a handkerchief. Oh, he's going to love this shirt, you'll
see!"

"I am sure he is," said Kate tenderly, and thereafter held her peace.

Jacqueline was right, Philip's delight in his "surprise" was almost
touching. It was perhaps the first thing that any woman had made for him
with her own hands since the days when his mother prepared for his
arrival in the world. He bragged about his shirt to all of his
acquaintance, loyally concealing its weaknesses; and would have worn it
with equal pride had it been as uncomfortable as the shirt of Nessus.

Jacqueline, highly elated, embarked upon a series of silken adventures.
If firm intention could have done it, she would have become in those
days as accomplished a needlewoman as her mother and sister.

CHAPTER XLIV

Jacqueline had never quite thought out to herself the reason for
Channing's unexplained disappearance. It was a subject upon which her
mind dwelt constantly whenever she was alone; hence she managed to be
alone as little as possible. The realization that he was a coward, as
she had more than once suspected--afraid to face the consequences of his
own act; afraid (the weakest cowardice of all!) of what people might
say--had done much to help her pride through the humiliation of
desertion, had done much, indeed, to banish him from her heart.

But she could not banish him from her mind. Again and again her thoughts
went over all that had passed between them, trying piteously to
discover what had happened to put them apart. He had been so madly
in love, had wanted her so desperately--or was it she who had wanted
him? Had she shown that too plainly?--Had she not shown him plainly
enough?--Sometimes she reproached herself bitterly for her little
instinctive coquetries with him. More often she asked herself in a
terrified whisper whether he had ever really loved her at all, whether
it was she herself who had done the seeking, the demanding?--she a
shameless creature, blinded by her own feeling, to whom he had responded
out of pity, perhaps (Jacqueline shivered), laughing at her all the
while in his sleeve.

Poor Jacqueline! It was no wonder that her eyes were shadowed, her
manner listless. Always, in these dreaded meditations, she came to a
certain point where she dared think no further, but ran away from
herself in a sort of panic, to the comfort of whoever