extraordinary and rather brazen. And he liked still less to be drawn into a
woman's parlance.

Mrs. Thorne sat still, trembling. "Henry, tell her! Speak to her!"

Miss Benedet turned from husband to wife. Her face was very pale. "Ah," she
said, "you knew about me all the time! He has told you everything--and you
called me 'my dear'! Is it easy for you to say such things?"

"Never mind, never mind! What did you wish to say to me? What was it?"

"Give me a moment, please! This alters everything. I must get accustomed to
this before we go any further."

She reached out her white arm with the thin sleeve wrinkled over it, and
helped herself again to water. In every gesture there was the poise and
distinction of perfect self-command, a highly wrought self-consciousness,
as far removed from pose as from Nature's simplicity. Natural she could
never be again. No woman is natural who has a secret experience to guard,
whether of grief or shame, her own or of any belonging to her.

"You are the very man," she said, "the one who would not promise. And you
kept your word and told your wife. And how long have you known of--of this
engagement?"

Mr. Thorne looked at his wife.

"Only a few days," she said.

"Still, there has been time," the girl reflected. She let her voice fall