pleasing. Indeed, she was far from having given it up. Married a dozen
years ago, for a second time, to the doctor, they seemed still to be
at the first months of their dual happiness. While she sang a popular
Russian melody, savage and sweet like the smile of a Slav, Jenkins was
ingenuously proud, without seeking to dissimulate the fact, his broad
face all beaming; and she, each time that she bent her head as she
regained her breath, glanced in his direction a timid, affectionate
smile that flew to seek him over the unfolded music. And then, when she
had finished amid an admiring and delighted murmur, it was touching to
notice how discreetly she gave her husband's hand a secret squeeze, as
though to secure to themselves a corner of private bliss in the midst of
her great triumph. Young de Gery was feeling cheered by the spectacle of
this happy couple, when quite close to him a voice murmured--it was not,
however, the same voice that he had heard just before:

"You know what they say--that the Jenkinses are not married."

"How absurd!"

"I assure you. It would seem that there is a veritable Mme. Jenkins
somewhere, but not the lady we know. Besides, have you noticed----"

The dialogue continued in an undertone. Mme. Jenkins advanced, bowing,
smiling, while the doctor, stopping a tray that was being borne
round, brought her a glass of claret with the alacrity of a mother, an
impresario, a lover. Calumny, calumny, ineffaceable defilement! To the
provincial young man, Jenkins's attentions now seemed exaggerated.
He fancied that there was something affected about them, something
deliberate, and, too, in the words of thanks which she addressed in
a low voice to her husband he thought he could detect a timidity, a