e."

"When a man's preoccupied there must be a lady then?" Russell inquired.

"That seems to be the view of your sex," Mrs. Palmer suggested. "It was
my husband who said it, not Mildred or I."

Mildred smiled faintly. "Papa may be singular in his ideas; they may
come entirely from his own experience, and have nothing to do with
Arthur."

"Thank you, Mildred," her cousin said, bowing to her gratefully. "You
seem to understand my character--and your father's quite as well!"

However, Mildred remained grave in the face of this customary
pleasantry, not because the old jest, worn round, like what preceded it,
rolled in an old groove, but because of some preoccupation of her own.
Her faint smile had disappeared, and, as her cousin's glance met hers,
she looked down; yet not before he had seen in her eyes the flicker of
something like a question--a question both poignant and dismayed. He may
have understood it; for his own smile vanished at once in favour of a
reciprocal solemnity.

"You see, Arthur," Mrs. Palmer said, "Mildred is always a good cousin.
She and I stand by you, even if you do stay away from us for weeks and
weeks." Then, observing that he appeared to be so occupied with a bunch
of iced grapes upon his plate that he had not heard her, she began to
talk to her husband, asking him what was "going on down-town."

Arthur continued to eat his grapes, but he ventured to look again at
Mildred after a few moments. She, also, appeared to be occupied with
a bunch of grapes though she ate none, and only pulled them from their
stems. She sat straight, her features as composed and pure as those of
a new marble saint in a cathedral niche; yet her downcast eyes seemed to
conceal many thoughts; and her cousin, against his will, was more aware
of what these thoughts might be than of the leisurely conversation
between her father and mother. All at once, however, he heard something
that startled him, and he listened--and here was the effect of all
Alice's forefendings; he listened from the first with a sinking heart.

Mr. Palmer, mildly amused by what he was telling his wife, had just
spoken the words, "this Virgil Adams." What he had said was, "this
Virgil Adams--that's the man's name. Queer case."

"Who told you?" Mrs. Palmer inquired, not much interested.

"Alfred Lamb," her husband answered. "He was laughing about his father,
at the club. You see the old gentleman takes a great pride in his
judgment of men, and alwa