should essay."

It was easy enough for Magda to read between the lines. If anything had
happened to Kit Raynham--if it were ultimately found that he had taken
his own life--society at large was prepared to censure her as more or
less responsible for the catastrophe!

Side by side with this paragraph was another--a panegyric on the
perfection of Wielitzska's dancing as a whole, and dwelling particularly
upon her brilliant performance in _The Swan-Maiden_.

To Magda, the juxtaposition of the two paragraphs was almost
unendurable. That this supreme success should be marred and overshadowed
by a possible tragedy! She flung the newspaper to the ground.

"I think--I think the world's going mad!" she exclaimed in a choked
voice.

Gillian looked across at her. Intuitively she apprehended the mental
conflict through which her friend was passing--the nervous apprehension
and resentment of the artiste that any extraneous happening should
infringe upon her success contending with the genuine regret she would
feel if some untoward accident had really befallen Kit Raynham. And
behind both these that strange, aloof detachment which seemed part of
the very fibre of her nature, and which Gillian knew would render it
almost impossible for her to admit or even realise that she was in any
way responsible for Kit Raynham's fate--whatever it might be.

Of what had taken place in the winter-garden at Lady Arabella's Gillian
was, of course, in ignorance, and she had therefore no idea that the
intrusion of Kit Raynham's affairs at this particular juncture was
doubly unwelcome. But she could easily see that Magda was shaken out of
her customary sang-froid.

"Don't worry, Magda." The words sprang consolingly to her lips, but
before she could give them utterance Melrose opened the door and
announced that Lady Raynham was in the library. Would Mademoiselle
Wielitzska see her?

The old man's face wore a look of concern. They had heard all about the
disappearance of Lady Raynham's son in the servants' hall--the evening
papers had had it. Moreover, it always seems as though there exists
a species of wireless telepathy by which the domestic staff of any
household, great or small, speedily becomes acquainted with everything
good, bad, or indifferent--and particularly bad!--which affects the
folks "above-stairs."

A brief uncomfortable pause succeeded Melrose's announcement; then Magda
walked quietly out of the room into the library.

Lady