the north gallery too, which, as a rule, is deserted."

"She didn't know we were thinking of driving to the hills," says Sir
Adrian, making a feeble effort to find a flaw in his companion's
statement.

"Oh, yes, she did!" declares the widow lightly. "I told her myself,
about two hours ago, that I intended asking you to make a party to go
there, as I dote on lovely scenery; and I dare say"--coquettishly--"she
knew--I mean thought--you would not refuse so small a request of mine.
But for poor Lady FitzAlmont's headache we should be there now."

"It is true," admits Sir Adrian, feeling that the last straw has
descended.

"And now that I think of it," the widow goes on, even more vivaciously,
"the reason she assigned for not coming with us must have been a feigned
one. Ah, slyboots that she is!" laughs Mrs. Talbot merrily. "Of course,
she wanted the course clear to have an explanation with Arthur. Well,
after all, that was only natural. But she might have trusted me, whom
she knows to be her true friend."

Ill-tempered--capricious--sly! And all these faults are attributed to
Florence by "her true friend!" A quotation assigned to Marechal Villars
when taking leave of Louis XIV. occurs to him--"Defend me from my
friends." The words return to him persistently; but then he looks down
on Dora Talbot, and stares straight into her liquid blue eyes, so
apparently guileless and pure, and tells himself that he wrongs her.
Yes, it is a pity Florence had not put greater faith in this kind little
woman, a pity for all of them, as then many heart-breaks might have been