Master of the Vineyard

He forced himself to dress for dinner and to go down at the proper time. Madame was waiting, but Edith was late. When she appeared, she was in the white linen gown she had worn all day, with the withered rose in her belt. It was the first evening she had not dressed for dinner and she at once apologised to Madame.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but it seemed impossible to make the effort to-night. You'll forgive me, won't you?"

"Of course," Madame returned sweetly.

"Of course," Alden echoed. His voice sounded distant and his eyes were dull.

As dinner bade fair to be a silent function, Madame turned to Edith with the first question that came into her mind.

"What have you been doing all the afternoon?"

"Packing," replied Edith, with dry lips.

Nothing to Say

"Or rather, getting ready to pack." She did not look at Alden, but at Madame, with a wan little smile that made the old lady's heart suddenly very tender toward her.

"My dear! We'll miss you so."

"I know," Edith murmured, "and I shall miss you--more than words may say, but I have to go." She drained the glass of water at her plate, then added: "My husband wants me to come back. He has written to say so."

"Then," said Madame, "I suppose you will have to go."

"I suppose so," repeated Edith, parrot-like.

Alden's eyes never swerved from Edith's white face. In their depths was the world-old longing, the world-old appeal, but never for the fraction of an instant did Edith trust herself to look at him.

When they rose from the table, Edith went back to her room immediately, murmuring an excuse. Alden watched her despairingly until the hem of her white gown was lost at the turn of the stairs. Then he sat down with the paper, but he could not read, for the words zig-zagged crazily along the page.

Madame understood and sincerely pitied them both, but there seemed to be nothing to say. She leaned back in her chair, with her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, but, in reality, watching Alden as he stared vacantly at the paper he held in his shaking hands.

Poor Comfort

At last he rose and went out upon the veranda. Madame started from her chair, then forced herself to lean back again, calmly. She heard the scraping of his chair as he moved it along the veranda, out of the way of the light that came through the open window. For a long time there was silence.