she had brought to bay. Her
early trials and provincial upbringing had developed her Puritan
inheritance, but she had had flashing and startling glimpses of her
depths now and again. For a moment she felt the waters of an immemorial
ennui rise high in her own soul, then drop to the grinning skulls and
sparkless ashes of old pleasures. She shuddered back, and raised her
eyes once more to the haughty mask opposite.

"I think I understand," she said, gently. "But you must go. I kept him
from seeing you to-night. But he would find out in time. As you know how
he believes in you, you can imagine the consequences. I suppose you have
not done anything so public before, or I should have heard of it. I
vaguely recall that women can look on at prize-fights from private
boxes. Last night, it isn't likely that any one noticed. Or if they did
they would question the evidence of their senses in the morning, the
best of them. So please go."

She paused. Lady Victoria stared at her without the slightest change of
expression. Isabel continued imperturbably. "London is so vast--if you
must have that sort of liberty, for heaven's sake go where it is most
likely to be overlooked--and where libel laws are operative. For all its
license, San Francisco is one of the most censorious and unrelenting
societies in the world, and has more old-fashioned people than New York.
If you become the talk of the town, and those awful weekly papers find
you out, Elton will be a long while living it down. It will make
ridiculous all his efforts at reform. Perhaps he would no longer care. I
fancy it would affect him that way."

She rose, and Lady Victoria rose also and walked to the door. As she
opened it she smiled grimly. "You have courage," she said. "I am more
than ever convinced that you are the wife for Jack. I will go."

PART III

1906

I

On the same afternoon Lady Victoria developed appendicitis and went to
bed for two months. She was only in danger for a short time, but the
doctor announced his intention of giving her a rest cure, and his
patient, who was profoundly indifferent, made no protest. And if
invalidism is a career, an illness is an adventure; moreover, no doubt,
it was a relief to Victoria Gwynne to have her thinking done by some one
else for a time. Isabel had thoughtfully rung up the handsomest doctor
in San Francisco the moment the disease declared itself, and it was to
be expected that he would find his patient