om the apathy into which she seemed to have fallen, but without
success.

"It's no use, Gillyflower," she would reply with a weary little smile.
"There _is_ no way out. Do you remember I once said I was too happy for
it to last? It was quite true. . . . Have you told Marraine?" she asked
suddenly.

"Yes. And she wants to see you."

"I don't think I want to see her--or anyone just at present. I've got to
think--to think things out."

"What do you mean? What are you going to do?"

"I--don't know--yet."

Gillian regarded her with some anxiety. That Magda, usually so
unreserved and spontaneous, should shut her out of her confidence
thoroughly disquieted her. She felt afraid. It seemed to her as though
the girl were more or less stunned by the enormity of the blow which
had befallen her. She went about with a curious absence of interest in
anything--composed, quiet, absorbed in her own thoughts, only rousing
herself to appear at the Imperial as usual. Probably her work at the
theatre was the one thing that saved her from utter collapse.

As far as Gillian knew she had not shed a single tear. Only her face
seemed to grow daily more strained-looking, and her eyes held a curious
expression that was difficult to interpret.

There were days which she spent entirely in the seclusion of her own
room, and then Virginie alone was allowed entrance. The old Frenchwoman
would come in with some special little dish she had cooked with her own
hands, hoping to tempt her beloved mistress's appetite--which in these
days had dwindled to such insignificant proportions that Virginie was in
despair.

"Thou must eat," she would say.

"I don't want anything--really, Virginie," Magda would insist.

"And wherefore not?" demanded Virginie indignantly one day. "Thou art
not one of the Sisters of Penitence that thou must needs deny thyself
the good things of life."

Magda looked up with a sudden flash of interest.

"The Sisters of Penitence, Virginie? Who are they? Tell me about them."

Virginie set a plate containing an epicurean omelet triumphantly in
front of her.

"Eat that, then, _cherie_, while I tell thee of them," she replied with
masterly diplomacy. "It is good, the omelet. Virginie made it for thee
with her own hands."

Magda laughed faintly in spite of herself and began upon the omelet
obediently.

"Very well, then. Tell me about the Sisters of Penitence. Are they
always being sorry for what they've done?"

"It is a