lled in the plans of the
event; the gold and silver shower of the bridal presents was raining
down. The determining cause of the catastrophe was never quite clear to
the community--whether a lover's quarrel with disproportionate
consequences, by reason of the marplot activities of a mercenary relative
of the lady's, advocating the interests of a sudden opportunity of
greater wealth and station; or her foolish revenge for a fancied slight;
or simply her sheer inconstancy in a change of mind and heart. At all
events, without a word of warning, Julian Bayne, five years before, had
the unique experience of reading in a morning paper the notice of the
marriage of his promised bride to another man, and of sustaining with
what grace he might the role of a jilted lover amidst the ruins of his
nuptial preparations.

In the estimation of the judicious, he had made a happy escape, for the
cruelty involved in the lady's methods and the careless flout of the
opinion of the sober, decorous world were not _indicia_ of worthy
traits; but he was of sensitive fibre, and tingled and winced with the
consciousness of the cheap gibe and the finger of scorn. He often said to
himself then, however, as now to the friend of his inmost thought, "I
would not be bound to a woman capable of such treachery for----"

Words failed him, inadequate, though he spoke calmly. His face had
resumed its habitual warm pallor. His clear-cut features, something too
sharply defined for absolute regularity, with the unassertive effect of
his straight auburn hair, his deliberate, contemplative glance, his
reserved, high-bred look, the quiet decorum of his manner, were not
suggestive of the tumult of his inner consciousness, and the
unresponsiveness of his aspect baffled Briscoe. With some inapposite,
impulsive warmth he protested: "But she has had bitter cause for
repentance, Julian. Royston was a brute. The only decent thing he ever
did was dying! She has been an awfully unhappy woman. I know you will be
sorry for that."

"Neither glad nor sorry. She is nothing to me. Not because she dealt me a
blow after a very unfair fashion, but because she is nothing in herself
that I could really care for. She has no delicate sensibilities, no fine
perceptions; she is incapable of constancy. Don't you understand? She has
no capacity to feel."

Briscoe had a look of extenuating distress--a sentiment of loyalty to his
fair guest. "Oh, well, now, she is devoted to her child--