o know that, so far from being in
love with me, Mr. Marchdale is quite desperately in love with another
woman. He was talking to me about her the moment before you arrived."

"Was he, indeed?--and you the barest acquaintances!" quizzed Mrs.
O'Donovan Florence, pulling a face. "Well, well," she went on
thoughtfully, "if he's in love with another woman, that settles my last
remaining doubt. It can only be that the other woman's yourself."

Beatrice shook her head, and laughed again.

"Is that what they call an Irishism?" she asked, with polite curiosity.

"And an Irishism is a very good thing, too--when employed with
intention," retorted her friend. "Did he just chance, now, in a casual
way, to mention the other woman's name, I wonder?"

"Oh, you perverse and stiff-necked generation!" Beatrice laughed. "What
can his mentioning or not mentioning her name signify? For since he's
in love with her, it's hardly likely that he's in love with you or me at
the same time, is it?"

"That's as may be. But I'll wager I could make a shrewd guess at her
name myself. And what else did he tell you about her? He's told me
nothing; but I'll warrant I could paint her portrait. She's a fine
figure of a young Englishwoman, brown-haired, grey-eyed, and she stands
about five-feet-eight in her shoes. There's an expression of great
malice and humour in her physiognomy, and a kind of devil-may-care
haughtiness in the poise of her head. She's a bit of a grande dame, into
the bargain--something like an Anglo-Italian duchess, for example; she's
monstrously rich; and she adds, you'll be surprised to learn, to her
other fascinations that of being a widow. Faith, the men are so fond
of widows, it's a marvel to me that we're ever married at all until we
reach that condition;--and there, if you like, is another Irishism for
you. But what's this? Methinks a rosy blush mantles my lady's brow. Have
I touched the heel of Achilles? She IS a widow? He TOLD you she was a
widow?... But--bless us and save us!--what's come to you now? You're as
white as a sheet. What is it?"

"Good heavens!" gasped Beatrice. She lay back in her chair, and stared
with horrified eyes into space. "Good--good heavens!"

Mrs. O' Donovan Florence leaned forward and took her hand.

"What is it, my dear? What's come to you?" she asked, in alarm.

Beatrice gave a kind of groan.

"It's absurd--it's impossible," she said; "and yet, if by any ridiculous
chance you should be right,