understood. Her eyes may speak, but her mouth is a sphinx. Yet it is
a lovely mouth, and the little teeth behind it shine like pearls.
For the rest, she is a widow. She married very badly; went abroad
with her husband; buried him in Montreal; and came home again. Her
purse is as slender as her figure, and not half so well worth
possessing. She says she is twenty-eight, and to her praise be it
acknowledged that she speaks the truth. Even _good_ women sometimes
stammer over this question!

"My sin, my sin?" demands she now gaily, smiling at Lady Rylton.

She flings up her lovely arms, and fastens them behind her head. Her
smile is full of mockery.

"Of course, my dear Marian, you cannot suppose that I have been
blind to the fact that you and Maurice have--for the past
year--been--er----"

"Philandering?" suggests Mrs. Bethune lightly.

She leans a little forward, her soft curved chin coming in
recognition.

"I beg, Marian, you won't be vulgar," says Lady Rylton, fanning
herself petulantly. "It's worse than being immoral."

"Far, _far_ worse!" Mrs. Bethune leans back in her chair, and laughs
aloud. "Well, I'm not immoral," says she.

Her laughter rings through the room. The hot sun behind her is