"You won't let them love you, Edith," said Constance jauntily. "They all
want to love you--all of them."

"I hate men," announced Mrs. Medcroft, retrospectively.

Developments of a most refractory character swooped down upon them at
the very end of the sojourn in Innsbruck. Every one had begun to
rejoice in the fact that the fortnight was almost over, and that they
could go their different ways without having anything really regrettable
to carry away with them. The Rodneys were going to Paris, the Medcrofts
to London, the Odell-Carneys (after finding out where the others were
bent) to Ostend. Freddie Ulstervelt suddenly announced his determination
to remain at the Tirol for a week or two longer. That very day he had
been introduced to a Mademoiselle Le Brun, a fascinating young Parisian,
stopping at the Tirol with her mother.

All might have ended well had it not been for the unfortunate
circumstance of Odell-Carney's making a purchase of the London
_Standard_ instead of the _Times_, as was his custom. His lamentations
over this piece of stupidity were cut short by the discovery of an
astonishing article upon the editorial page of the paper--an article
which created within him a sense of grave perplexity. He read the
headlines thrice and glanced through the text twice, neither time with
any very definite idea of what he was reading. His fingers shook as he
held the sheet nearer the window for a final effort to untangle the
incredible thing that lay before him in simple, unimpeachable black and
white.

"'Pon me word," he kept repeating to himself feebly. Then he got up and