on the point, without smirching the reputation of Pierce Armitage,
the man whose memory was enshrined in that dear lady's heart as a
thing of unsullied honour. She puzzled herself over the question
for a long time, and then decided to keep her own counsel.

"After all, why should I tell him?" she asked herself. "It might
make trouble--he is so proud of his lineage, and I too am proud of
it for him! ... why should I let him know that I inherit nothing
but my mother's shame!"

Her heart grew heavy as her position was thus forced back upon her
by her own thoughts. Up to the present no one had asked who she
was, or where she came from--she was understood to be an orphan,
left alone in the world, who by her own genius and unaided effort
had lifted herself into the front rank among the "shining lights"
of the day. This, so far, had been sufficient information for all
with whom she had come in contact--but as time went on, would not
people ask more about her?--who were her father and mother?--where
she was born?--how she had been educated? These inquisitorial
demands were surely among the penalties of fame! And, if she told
the truth, would she not, despite the renown she had won, be
lightly, even scornfully esteemed by conventional society as a
"bastard" and interloper, though the manner of her birth was no
fault of her own, and she was unjustly punishable for the sins of
her parents, such being the wicked law!

The night of the Duchess's reception was one of those close sultry
nights of June in London when the atmosphere is well-nigh as
suffocating as that of some foetid prison where criminals have
been pacing their dreary round all day. Royal Ascot was just over,