grew up together."

"There was hardly a day that I did not see her until she was
married," said Alice. "She was married at seventeen, you know--to a
man much older than herself."

"We have never seen her since that," added the other. "She has lived
in New Orleans."

"And only twenty-two now," exclaimed Reggie. "All the wisdom of a
widow and the graces of an ingenue!" And he raised his hands with a
gesture of admiration.

"Has she got money?" he asked.

"She had enough for New Orleans," was the reply. "I don't know about
New York."

"Ah well," he said meditatively, "there's plenty of money lying
about."

He took Alice away to her devotions, leaving Montague to the
memories which the mention of Lucy Dupree awakened.

Allan Montague had been in love with Lucy a half a dozen times in
his life; it had begun when she was a babe in arms, and continued
intermittently until her marriage. Lucy was a beauty of the creole
type, with raven-black hair and gorgeous colouring; and Allan
carried with him everywhere the face of joy, with the quick, mobile
features across which tears and laughter chased like April showers