instinct while ignorant of its meaning.

Even if he had done what she heard Rosamund Fane say he had done, it had
remained meaningless to her save for the manner of the telling. But
now--but now! Why had they laughed--why had their attitudes and manner
and the disconnected phrases in French left her flushed and rigid among
the idle group at supper? Why had they suddenly seemed to remember her
presence--and express their abrupt consciousness of it in such furtive
signals and silence?

It was false, anyway--whatever it meant. And, anyway, it was false that
he had driven away in Mrs. Ruthven's brougham. But, oh, if he had only
stayed--if he had only remained!--this friend of hers who had been so
nice to her from the moment he came into her life--so generous, so
considerate, so lovely to her--and to Gerald!

For a moment the glow remained, then a chill doubt crept in; would he
have remained had he known she was to be there? _Where_ did he go after
the dinner? As for what they said, it was absurd. And yet--and yet--

He sat, savagely intent upon the waning fire; she turned restlessly
again, elbows close together on her knees, face framed in her hands.

"You ask me if I am tired," she said. "I am--of the froth of life."

His face changed instantly. "What?" he exclaimed, laughing.

But she, very young and seriously intent, was now wrestling with the
mighty platitudes of youth. First of all she desired to know what
meaning life held for humanity. Then she expressed a doubt as to the