enough. Let his mother make it up to him."

"Yet he loves the father best," says Lady Swansdown quickly.

"I hope not," with a suspicion of violence.

"He does, believe me. One can see it. That saintly mother of his has not
half the attraction for him that you have. Why, look you, it is the way
of the world, why dispute it? Well, well," her triumphant voice
deepening to a weary whisper. "When one thinks of it all, she is not too
happy." She draws her hand in a little bewildered way across her white
brow.

"You don't understand her," says Baltimore frigidly. "She lives in a
world of her own. No one would dare penetrate it. Even I--her husband,
as you call me in mockery--am outside it. I don't believe she ever cared
for me. If she had, do you think she would have given a thought to that
infamous story?"

"About Madame Istray?"

"Yes. You, too, heard of it then?"

"Who hasn't heard. Violet Walden was not the one to spare you." She
pauses and looks at him, with all her heart in her eyes. "Was there no
truth in that story?" asks she at last, her words coming with a little
rush.

"None. I swear it! You believe me!" He has come nearer to her and taken
her hand in the extremity of this desire to be believed in by somebody.

"I believe you," says she, gently. Her voice is so low that he can catch
the words only; the grief and misery in them is unknown to him.
Mercifully, too, the moon has gone behind a cloud, a tender preparation
for an abdication presently, so that he cannot see the two heartbroken
tears that steal slowly down her cheeks.

"That is more than Isabel does," says he, with a laugh that has
something of despair in it.

"You tell me, then," says Lady Swansdown, "that you never saw Mme.
Istray after your marriage?"

"Never, willingly."

"Oh, willingly!"

"Don't misjudge me. Hear the whole story then--if you must," cries he
passionately--"though if you do, you will be the first to hear it. I am
tired of being thought a liar!"

"Go on," says she, in a low shocked tone. His singular vehemence has
compelled her to understand how severe have been his sufferings. If ever
she had doubted the truth of the old story that has wrecked the
happiness of his married life she doubts no longer.

"I tell you, you will be the first to hear it," says he, advancing
toward her. "Sit down there," pressing her into the garden seat. "I can
see you are looking overdone, even by this light. Well----" drawing a
long breat