And Mrs. Chepstow had it, bound in white.

"Are you judging my character by my books?"

A warm and careless voice spoke behind him. She had come in and was
standing close to him, dressed in white, with a black hat, and holding a
white parasol in her hand. In the sunshine she looked even fairer than
by night. Her pale but gleaming hair was covered by a thin veil, which
she kept down as she greeted Nigel.

"Not judging," he said, as he held her hand for a moment. "Guessing,
perhaps, or guessing at."

"Which is it? 'The Scarlet Letter'! I got it a year ago. I read it. And
when I had read it, I sent it to be bound in white."

"Why was that?"

"'Though your sin shall be as scarlet,'" she quoted.

He was silent, looking at her.

"Let us have tea."

As she spoke, she went, with her slow and careless walk which Isaacson
had noticed, towards the fireplace, and touched the electric bell. Then
she sat down on a sofa close to the cage of the canary-birds, and with
her back to the light.

"I suppose you are fearfully busy with engagements," she continued, as