mildly betting on his possible acceptance as husband or lover. It was
argued that during the life of Lord Carnath his wife's demeanor had been
above comment, but a cynic remarked that women had all sorts of odd
ideals; and was widely quoted.

Edith Ingoldsby had bought her Earl and paid a high price for him;
nevertheless she had liked him better than any man but one that she had
ever known, and they had been the best of friends. When she met him she
was in the agonies of her only passion, and had clutched the first
opportunity to bury alive the love that was destroying her beauty and
her interest in life.

The passion had lingered for a time, then gone the way of all passions
unfed by a monotonous environment and too much leisure. She found it
very interesting to be an English countess. For a while she had the
impression of playing a part in a modern historical drama; but before
long she realized, with true American adaptability, that her new life
was but the living chapters of a book whose earlier parts had been
serial instalments of retiring memory. Her great wealth, her beauty, her
piquant dashing thoroughbred manner, her husband's popularity and title,
created for her a position that would have closed any wound not
irritated by domestic unhappiness; and this canker was not in her rose.
When Carnath died she mourned him sincerely, but not too profoundly to
anticipate pleasurably the end of the weeded year. When she met Hedworth
she was as free of fancy and of heart as if she had but stepped from a
convent.

"Yes, I was in love once--" she admitted to him one evening as they sat
alone. She blushed as she tripped at the word "before." Hedworth had
made no declaration as yet; they were still playing with electricity,