he is capering about as
you see!"

Mary laughed.

"How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back
to-day?"

"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."

"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?"

"I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter;
and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his
madness."

"I see."

In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She
seemed grave, almost sad.

It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on
the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, I thought, but I had
not gone far before she stopped me authoritatively.

"You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt, Mr. Hastings, but in
this case your talents are quite thrown away. Cynthia will run no risk
of encountering any unkindness from me."

I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn't thought--But again
she stopped me, and her words were so unexpected that they quite drove
Cynthia, and her troubles, out of my mind.

"Mr. Hastings," she said, "do you think I and my husband are happy
together?"

I was considerably taken aback, and murmured something about it's not
being my business to think anything of the sort.

"Well," she said quietly, "whether it is your business or not, I will
tell you that we are _not_ happy."

I said nothing, for I saw that she had not finished.

She began slowly, walking up and down the room, her head a little bent,
and that slim, supple figure of hers swaying gently as she walked. She
stopped suddenly, and looked up at me.

"You don't know anything about me, do you?" she asked. "Where I come
from, who I was before I married John--anything, in fact? Well, I
will tell you. I will make a father confessor of you. You are kind, I
think--yes, I am sure you are kind."

Somehow, I was not quite as elated as I might have been. I remembered
that Cynthia had begun her confidences in much the same way. Besides,
a father confessor should be elderly, it is not at all the role for a
young man.

"My father was English," said Mrs. Cavendish, "but my mother was a
Russian."

"Ah," I said, "now I understand--"

"Understand what?"

"A hint of something foreign--different--that there has always been
about you."

"My mother was very beautiful, I believe. I don't know, because I never
saw her. She died when I was quite a little child. I believe there was
some tragedy co