tolidest
walls, or perhaps it comes in by the keyhole. It is a germ that is
spread by chattering tongues, like some deadly disease. It nearly
ruined my life when I was young."

"What a pity it cannot be taxed," sighs Eleanor. "By the way, the last
thing I heard was that you had broken your engagement with Bertie. Of
course, I did not believe it."

"Which was distinctly wrong of you under the circumstances. I am
disappointed in him. We have decided to go our separate paths--apart."

"Oh! Giddy, I am so sorry. But why?"

"When I marry (which I shall do some day again), I want a rising man,
clever, pushing, ambitious, like Lord MacDonald, in fact. Someone who
will improve my position, lift me, instead of being a burden. Bertie's
intellect was very weak, and I do hate a fool!"

"I should have thought that would be rather an advantage in a husband,"
remarks Eleanor.

"Really Bertie was too expensive, he wanted so much pocket money, I
could not afford the luxury of a _fiance_ on his terms. Of course, he
is broken-hearted, dear boy, and naturally I wept a few poetical tears,
and said I should always think of him as a friend."

"The carriage is at the door," she replies, "they are getting the
luggage down."

Eleanor and Giddy go into the hall together.

As Sarah carries the dressing bag out, it flies open, and something
falls at Mrs. Mounteagle's feet.

She picks it up.

It is a photograph of Carol Quinton.

"You must have that lock secured," she says laughing, "or buy a strap."

Eleanor colours, and hides the photograph in her muff.

"Good-bye, Giddy."

"Take care of yourself, my sweet," returning Eleanor's caress. "I have
no doubt it will be very merry and jolly in the country," with a little
grimace that means it won't.

But Mrs. Roche cares not to what corner of the globe she is travelling
as the train bears her to Copthorne. She is too utterly miserable to
notice places or seasons. She just sits by the window, and stares at
the picture she has drawn from her muff, from which the eyes of Carol
Quinton look pleadingly in hers.

"I wish I could bury myself," she thinks, her mind turning to
Africa--America--Asia--any of the far-off worlds she has read of in
geography books and fiction. "I wish I were someone else, or even the
old Eleanor that Philip stole from Copthorne Farm. Why did he not
leave me there? It would have been far better for us both!"

An elderly woman seated opposite gla