almost stamped her foot. "Lunching with her in public, and taking her to
tea, as I was told, getting here so late for dinner--I wish you could
have heard the way Nancy and Lee Linburne were goading me before dinner
about it."

"My dear Christine," said Max, and he was amused to hear a tone of real
conjugal remonstrance in his voice, "you have lunched and dined in one
day with Hickson, and yet I don't feel I have any grounds of complaint."

"Every one knows how little I care for Ned," she answered, "but people
say you do care for this little Western mouse. I hate her. She's good and
nice, and the kind of a girl men think it wise to marry, and just as
different from me as she can be. I do hate her--and I hate myself too."
And she covered her face with her hands.

"Come here, Christine," said Riatt, without moving, and was rather
surprised when she obeyed. He made her sit down beside him, and
taking her hands from her face, was astonished to find that she was
really crying.

"Why, my dear child," he said, in the most paternal manner he could
manage. "What is this all about?" And it was quite in the same note that
Christine wept a moment on his shoulder. Then she raised her head, with a
return of her old brisk manner.

"I'm jealous," she said. "Oh, don't suppose one can't be jealous of
people one doesn't care for. I could be jealous of any one when Nancy
begins teasing me and making fun of me. And I'm jealous too, because I'm
sure she's a nice girl and I've made such a mess of my life, and I
deserve it all; but when you came in together, as if you had just been