circles women are only women, and in every class of life we meet such as
Etta Bamborough. Women who, while they talk, glance down and rearrange a
flower or a piece of lace. It is a mere habit, seemingly small and
unimportant; but it marks the woman and sets her apart.

Etta was standing on the hearthrug, beautifully dressed--too beautifully
dressed, it is possible, to sit down. Her maid had a moment earlier
confessed that she could do no more, and Etta had come down stairs a
vision of luxury, of womanly loveliness. Nevertheless, there appeared to
be something amiss. She was so occupied with a flower at her shoulder
that she did not answer at once.

"Forgiven for what?" she asked at length, in that preoccupied tone of
voice which tells wise men that only questions of dress will be
considered.

De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders in his graceful Gallic way.

"Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed. "For a crime which requires no excuse, and no
explanation other than a mirror."

She looked up at him innocently.

"A mirror?"

"Yours. Have you forgiven me for falling in love with you? It is, I am
told, a crime that women sometimes condone."

"It was no crime," she said. She had heard the wheels of Paul's
carriage. "It was a misfortune. Please let us forget that it ever