if she
becomes his wife. Day after day she will read it in his eyes, in his
reticencies, in his efforts to be cheerful--she will know that he
remembers--_what she was!_

NO! She could not bear it, no woman with any pride could bear it.

Pride!

What is pride? Is it a good thing or a bad thing? Would I be a finer
woman if I could endure this humiliation and gracefully accept
forgiveness? I suppose some women would take it all simply, like a
grateful patient cured of an illness. Alas! that is not my nature.

* * * * *

How little we know ourselves! We all wear masks of one kind or another
that hide our true personalities even from ourselves. How will a woman
act in sudden peril? In a moral crisis? In the face of shattering
disgrace? Let the most beautiful wife and mother realize that some
painful chapter in her life is to be opened to the world--what price
will she not pay to avert this scandal?

Julian had a friend who on a certain night stood before a locked door
with an officer of the law. His wife was on the other side of that
door--with a companion in dishonor. The husband was armed. He was
absolutely within his rights. They broke down the door. _And then_--

Not one of those tragic three could have told in advance what would
happen when that door crashed in. As a matter of fact the woman alone
was calm--coldly calm.

"Yes," she said, "I am guilty. Now shoot! Why don't you shoot? You are
afraid to shoot!"

Which was true.

The husband was afraid; and the lover was more afraid; it was the erring
wife who cut the best figure. But who could have foreseen this
denouement?

* * * * *

After all I only did those abominable things because I was ill--when I
was not myself; whereas now I am well, and the evil has passed from me.
Besides, I only showed that wicked side of my nature to Christopher,
through my love; it is inconceivable that I could ever have acted that
way with another man. Christopher knows that. He knows there is no
possible doubt about that. How much difference does this knowledge make
to him--I wonder.

* * * * *

I am going to leave Paris. I am too unhappy here. It seems there is a
great need for nurses at Lourdes--that strange miracle place where
pilgrims go to be healed--and I have volunteered for service. If the
sick are really cured by miracles I don't see why they need nurses; but
never mind