Madame George Eveleth. Oui, oui. Non. Je comprends. C'est Monsieur de
Melcourt. Oui--oui--Dites-le-moi tout de suite--j'insiste--Oui--oui.
Ah-h-h!"

The last, prolonged, choking exclamation came as the cry of one who
sinks, smitten to the heart. Mrs. Eveleth was able to move at last. When
she reached the other room, Diane was crouched in a little heap on the
floor.

"He's dead? He's dead?" the mother cried, in frenzied questioning.

But Diane, with glazed eyes and parted lips, could only nod her head in
affirmation.

II

During the days immediately following George Eveleth's death the two
women who loved him found themselves separated by the very quality of
their grief. While Diane's heart was clamorous with remorse, the
mother's was poignantly calm. It was generally remarked, in the
Franco-American circles where the tragedy was talked of, that Mrs. Eveleth
displayed unexpected strength of character. It was a matter of common
knowledge that she shrank from none of the terrible details it was
necessary to supervise, and that she was capable of giving her attention
to her son's practical affairs.

It was not till a fortnight had passed that the two women came face to
face alone. The few occasions on which they had met hitherto had been
those of solemn public mourning, when the great questions between them
necessarily remained untouched. The desire to keep apart was common to
both, for neither was sufficiently mistress of herself to be ready for a
meeting.

The first move came from Diane. During her long, speechless days of
self-upbraiding certain thoughts had been slowly forming themselves into
resolutions; but it was on impulse rather than reflection that, at last,
she summoned up strength to knock at Mrs. Eveleth's door.

She entered timidly, expecting to find some manifestation of grief
similar to her own. She was surprised, therefore, to see her
mother-in-law sitting at her desk, with a number of businesslike
papers before her. She held a pencil between her fingers, and was
evidently in the act of adding up long rows of figures.

"Oh, come in," she said, briefly, as Diane appeared. "Excuse me a
minute. Sit down."

Diane seated herself by an open window looking out on the garden. It was
a hot morning toward the end of June, and from the neighboring streets
came the dull rumble of Paris. Beyond the garden, through an opening,
she could see a procession of carriages--probably a wedding on its way
to