scene two minutes after it is over, and imagine that others forget as

easily. She glanced about the crowded room as she sat down, hoping that she might be seen in the company of such a man. She was proud of him, and, to do her justice, proud of the fact that they were brother and sister, forgetting that in twenty years a resemblance that had once been remarkable had nearly vanished.

Before dinner was over, she had given him an outline of her life down to the present with commendable honesty. She had no wish, apparently, to gild the ugly sordidness of some of it, though she made it appear that her misfortunes had come to her more through the faithlessness and selfishness of men than through her own weakness. And yet men, it was obvious, were still her chief interest in life. As she talked to Eric her glance often wandered, and she made much play with her still beautiful hands.

Her dread of Chiozzi and his treatment of her seemed to Eric the most important part of her story. It was that he had to deal with now. She said he had threatened her life more than once in order to extort money from her. Her income had dwindled to barely seven hundred a year, all that remained of the considerable fortune left her by Morton Freeman. That much she had managed to keep intact, in spite of the efforts of her greedy Count.

"If I go back to him," she said with a shudder, "he'll have it all."

Eric dreaded the idea of a divorce. Her affairs had already had so much unsavory publicity.

"You must not think of going back to him at present," he told her. "Later we will see what can be done. You can write to him from London, if you wish."

"I dread London."

"You will be safest there. And you will find that people have forgotten. You must try to begin again, my dear, and be content with contentment, and simple things. You will not find life exciting, but you may find it pleasant. I will do what I can, and you will have mother, who is a marvel of marvels. I would suggest a little house in the country, or a small flat in town."

She considered this, smoking a faintly perfumed cigarette.

"What are Millicent's children like?"

"They're delightful. You'll love Judy and Noel."

"But Millie won't let them know me."

"I doubt if Millie will have very much to say in the matter. If they choose to know you, they will."

"And your wife--Louise?"

He hesitated.

"You may find her difficult."

"How difficult? One of those ... those good women, I suppose." This with a sneer that made Eric wince.

"Louise is very ... indifferent. Frankly, she doesn't care a straw for me."

"Not care for you? She must be a fool."

He inclined his head in the slightest of bows.

"You are my sister, and prejudiced."

"I know a man when I see one, whether he's my brother or not." She gave a short laugh. "Mon Dieu! I ought to, by this time."

"My wife," said Eric, "considers me a tiresome and conceited fellow. She dislikes a great many things about me; no doubt with reason."

"Jealous," commented his sister, who could see through other women.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"So some of my friends say. I cannot understand it. But you needn't see much of each other."

"I think I know her sort," said Connie, watching the smoke from her cigarette. "Well, we both seem to have made a mess of things."

This struck Eric as humorous, but not a sign of his amusement appeared in his face.

"Where is Petrovitch now?" he asked her.

She smiled to a passing acquaintance before she answered.

"In America, I believe. Still lionized and applauded. It seems to me, Eric, that men have nine lives to a woman's one. Look at me ... a worn-out wreck, while he----"

"A bad fellow, Connie," said Eric; at which she bit her lip.

"I can't let you say that. I love him."

"Still?"

She nodded.

Eric looked at her as though he would like to see into her mind.

"Tell me this. I ask you as I might ask any woman in your place. Has it been worth it?"

Her eyes fell, and she seemed to be groping for words. Then she rose from the table, gathering up her long gloves and beaded bag.

"I would tell you, if I knew," she said at last. "But I don't know. I suppose I have lost all sense of values."

"That is answer enough," he replied.

* * * * * *

As they drove back to the hotel she turned to him and said:

"When do you want me to be ready?"

"I ought to go back to-morrow," he told her. "Would that be possible for you?"

"Yes." Then, a little dramatically, "I place myself in your hands, Eric. Do with me what you will."