may secretly have felt toward the good-looking husband of her
sister. To say that she was enjoying herself would be putting it much
too tamely; she was revelling in the fun of the thing. It mattered
little to her that people--her own cousins in particular--were looking
upon her with cold and critical eyes; she knew, down in her heart, that
she could throw a bomb among them at any time by the mere utterance of a
single word. It mattered as little that Edith was beginning to chafe
miserably under the strain of waiting and deception; the novelty had
worn off for the wife of Roxbury; she was despairingly in love, and she
was pining for the day to come when she could laugh again with real
instead of simulated joyousness.

"Connie, dear," she would lament a dozen times a day, "it's growing
unbearable. Oh, how I wish the three weeks were ended. Then I could have
my Roxbury, and you could have my other Roxbury, and everybody wouldn't
be pitying me and cavilling at you because I'm unhappily married."

"Why do you say I could have your other Roxbury?" demanded her sister on
one occasion. "You forget that father expects me to marry the viscount.
I--"

"You are so tiresome, Connie. Don't worry me with your love affairs--I
don't want to hear them. There's Mr. Brock waiting for you in the
garden."

"I know it, my dear. He's been waiting for an hour. I think it is good
for him to wait," said the other, with airy confidence. "What does Roxy
say in his letter this morning?"

"He says it will all be over in a day or two. Dear me, how I wish it
were over now! I can't endure Cousin Mary's snippishness much longer,
and as for Katherine! My dear, I hate that girl!"

"She's been very nice lately, Edith--ever since Freddie dropped me so
completely. By the way, Burton was telling me to-day that Odell-Carney
had been asking her some very curious and staggering questions about
Tootles and your most private affairs."

"I know, my dear," groaned Edith. "He very politely remarked to me last
night that Tootles made him think very strangely of a friend of his in
London. He wouldn't mention the fellow's name. He only smiled and said,
'Nevah mind, my dear, he's a c'nfended handsome dog.' I daresay he meant
that as a compliment for Tootles. She _is_ pretty, don't you think so,
dear?"

"She's just like you, Edith," said Constance, who understood things
quite clearly.

"Then, in heaven's name, Connie, why are they staring at her so
impolitely-