at twenty-five a widow, and one without any intimate duties or close ties
to fill her existence. Though she had mourned George Bailey sincerely,
she had soon recovered all her normal interest and pleasure in life.

Mrs. Bailey was fond of dress and able to indulge her taste; but, even
so, good feeling and the standard of propriety of the English country
town of Market Dalling where she had spent most of her life, perhaps
also a subtle instinct that nothing else would ever suit her so well,
made her remain rigidly faithful to white and black, pale grey, and
lavender. She also wore only one ornament, but it was a very becoming
and an exceedingly costly ornament, for it consisted of a string of large
and finely-matched pearls.

As the two friends went upstairs after luncheon Madame Wolsky said
earnestly, "If I were you, Sylvia, I would certainly leave your pearls in
the office this afternoon. Where is the use of wearing them on such an
expedition as that to a fortune-teller?"

"But why shouldn't I wear them?" asked Sylvia, rather surprised.

"Well, in your place I should certainly leave anything as valuable as
your pearls in safe keeping. After all, we know nothing of this Madame
Cagliostra, and Montmartre is what Parisians call an eccentric quarter."

Sylvia Bailey disliked very much taking off her pearls. Though she could
not have put the fact into words, this string of pearls was to her a
symbol of her freedom, almost of her womanhood.

As a child and young girl she had been under the close guardianship
of a stern father, and it was to please him that she had married the