move him from his decision. Etta was perhaps a small-minded person, and
as such failed to attach due importance to this proof that her power
over him was limited. It ceased, in fact, to exist as soon as it touched
that strong sense of duty which is to be found in many men and in
remarkably few women.

It almost seemed as if the abrupt departure of her lover was in some
sense a relief to Etta Sydney Bamborough. For, while he, lover-like, was
grave and earnest during the small remainder of the evening, she
continued to be sprightly and gay. The last he saw of her was her
smiling face at the window as her carriage drove away.

Arrived at the little house in Upper Brook Street, Maggie and Etta went
into the drawing-room, where biscuits and wine were set out. Their maids
came and took their cloaks away, leaving them alone.

"Paul and I are engaged," said Etta suddenly. She was picking the
withered flowers from her dress and throwing them carelessly on the
table.

Maggie was standing with her back to her, with her two hands on the
mantel-piece. She was about to turn round when she caught sight of her
own face in the mirror, and that which she saw there made her change her
intention.

"I am not surprised," she said, in an even voice, standing like a
statue. "I congratulate you. I think he is--nice."

"You also think he is too good for me," said Etta, with a little laugh.
There was something in that laugh--a ring of wounded vanity, the wounded