And he
could still admire her, too, not only for the exquisite clearness of her
intellect, her French and Italian, her knowledge of countries and
affairs, but physically--the clear, childish forehead that was as
unwrinkled as Leslie's, the fair, beautifully brushed hair, the mouth
with its chiselling of wisdom and of pain, and the transparent hand from
which she shook back transparent laces. She was always proud, always
fresh and fragrant, always free for him and for his problems, and it was
proverbial in the circle of their intimates that Chris admired Alice
with all his heart, and never felt himself anything but the privileged
guardian of a treasure.

To-night he dropped into a chair before her fire, and she watched him
for five or six restful minutes in silence.

"Stupid dinner?" she ventured.

"Rotten!" he answered, cheerfully. "I was late, but I got in to hear
Hendrick's speech. The Vice-President was there, everyone else I knew. I
cut away finally; I'm done up."

"I thought you picked up Hendrick on your way and went together," Mrs.
Liggett said, sympathetically. "I'm sorry it was dull--I suppose men
have to go to these political things!"

Chris was leaning forward, his locked hands dropped between his knees,
and his eyes on the fire.

"Hendrick and I stopped at your mother's," he said, deliberately, "and
she was so upset that I sent Hendrick on alone!"

Alice's eyes lighted apprehensively, but she spoke very quietly.

"What was it, Chris? Leslie getting saucy?"

"Oh, no, no! It was a complication of things, I imagine!" Christopher
took out his cigarette-case, looked at its moire surface reflectively,
and selected a smoke. "She was tired--she'd been out in the
snow--Leslie had gone off with Annie to some debutante affair--I daresay
she felt blue. Alice, do you remember a woman named Kate Sheridan?"

The question was sudden, and Alice blinked.

"Yes, I do," she answered, after a moment's thought, "she was a sort of
maid or travelling companion of Mama's. We called her Mrs. Sheridan--she
was quite a superior sort of person."

"What do you remember about her, dear?"

"Well--just that. She came when I was only a child--and then when Annie
was ill in Paris she went abroad with Mama--and I remember that she came
back, and she used to come see me at school, for Mama, and once she took
me up to Grandma's, in Brookline. She was a widow, and she had a
child--or two, maybe. Why, Chris?"

Her husband did no