have done so from the beginning," explained Peter.

"I know. I could not in conscience, as I told you, take from both sides.
For the future--well, they have said nothing; but I expect they are
beginning to get tired of it."

"And you!" questioned Peter.

"Yes. I am tired of it myself," laughed Miss Ramsbotham. "Life isn't
long enough to be a well-dressed woman."

"You have done with all that?"

"I hope so," answered Miss Ramsbotham.

"And don't want to talk any more about it?" suggested Peter.

"Not just at present. I should find it so difficult to explain."

By others, less sympathetic than old Peter, vigorous attempts were made
to solve the mystery. Miss Ramsbotham took enjoyment in cleverly evading
these tormentors. Thwarted at every point, the gossips turned to other
themes. Miss Ramsbotham found interest once again in the higher branches
of her calling; became again, by slow degrees, the sensible, frank, 'good
sort' that Bohemia had known, liked, respected--everything but loved.

Years later, to Susan Fossett, the case was made clear; and through Susan
Fossett, a nice enough woman but talkative, those few still interested
learned the explanation.

"Love," said Miss Ramsbotham to the bosom friend, "is not regulated by
reason. As you say, there were many men I might have married with much
more hope of happiness. But I never cared for any other man. He was not
intellectual, was egotistical, possibly enough selfish. The man should
always be older than the woman; he was younger, and he was a weak
character. Yet I loved him."

"I am glad you didn't marry him," said the bosom friend.

"So am I," agreed Miss Ramsbotham.

"If you can't trust me," had said the bosom friend at this point,
"don't."

"I meant to do right," said Miss Ramsbotham, "upon my word of honour I
did, in the beginning."

"I don't understand," said the bosom friend.

"If she had been my own child," continued Miss Ramsbotham, "I could not
have done more--in the beginning. I tried to teach her, to put some
sense into her. Lord! the hours I wasted on that little idiot! I marvel
at my own patience. She was nothing but an animal. An animal! she had
only an animal's vices. To eat and drink and sleep was her idea of
happiness; her one ambition male admiration, and she hadn't character
enough to put sufficient curb upon her stomach to retain it. I reasoned
with her, I pleaded with her, I bullied her. Had I persisted I might