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"Yes, I will," she promised, without smiling. "I merely said that

mother and Mrs. Mallaby had discussed you and me, and our

marriage, and that Mrs. Mallaby had said some things about you."

"Well, lots of people do that," he smiled.

"Yes--but they haven't said just this thing, Nat."

"What was that?"

"I'm going to let you think. Just suppose that Mrs. Mallaby hated

you very much and wanted to do you harm. What would she tell my

mother?"

The girl, pale and on the verge of an hysterical outburst,

watched his face out of her mask of self-control.

The blood beneath his tan receded and was replaced by a sickly

greenish hue. That flash had brought its memory--a memory that

had lain buried beneath the events of his later life. Did she

know? How could she know?

To the girl watching him there was confirmation enough. She was

suddenly filled with inexpressible distaste for this man who had

in days past smothered her with caresses and dinned into her ears

speeches concerning a passion that he called love.