Beatrice laughed.

"I 'm sorry to destroy a romance, Kate," she said; "but alas

for the pretty one you 've woven, I happen to 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.




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