like a--a marriage REALLY marriage--until now."

Another long silence. Then she burst out appealingly: "Oh, I
don't see how I'm ever going to tell them!"

Scarborough came back to his chair and seated himself. His face
was curiously white. It was in an unnatural voice that he said:
"How old is he?"

"Twenty-five," she replied, then instantly flared up, as if he
had attacked Dumont: "But it wasn't his fault--not in the
least. I knew what I was doing--and I wanted to do it. You
mustn't get a false impression of him, Hampden. You'd admire and
respect him. You--any one--would have done as he did in the same
circumstances." She blushed slightly. "You and he are ever so
much alike--even in looks. It was that that made me tell you,
that made me like you as I have--and trust you."

Scarborough winced. Presently he began: "Yet you regret----"

"No--no!" she protested--too vehemently. "I do NOT regret
marrying him. That was certain to be sooner or later. All I
regret is that I did something that seems underhanded. Perhaps
I'm really only sorry I didn't tell them as soon as I'd done
it."

She waited until she saw he was not going to speak. "And now,"
she said, "I don't know HOW to tell them." Again she waited,
but he did not speak, continued to look steadily out into the
sky. "What do you think?" she asked nervously. "But I can