"I always liked the Viscount," said Mrs. Carew, pensively looking at the
letter she held in her hand. "He was a good friend to us at one time. I
never understood him, and I like men whom one does not understand."

Hilda laughed.

"Yes," she answered vaguely.

"Your father admired him tremendously," Mrs. Carew went on to say. "He
said that he was one of the cleverest men in France, but that he had
fallen in a wrong season, and would not adapt himself. Had France been a
monarchy, the Vicomte d'Audierne would have been in a very different
position."

Vellacott did not open his own letters. He seemed to be interested in
the conversation of these ladies. He was not a reserved man, but a
secretive, which is quite a different thing. Reserve is natural--it
comes unbidden, and often unwelcome. Secretiveness is born of
circumstances. Some men find it imperative to cultivate it, although
their soul revolts within them. In professional or social matters it is
often merely an expediency--in some cases it almost feels like a crime.
There are some secrets which cannot be divulged; there are some
deceptions which a certain book-keeper will record upon the credit side
of our account.

Like most young men who have got on in their calling, Christian
Vellacott held his career in great respect. He felt that any sacrifice
made for it carried its own reward. He thought that it levelled scruples
and justified deceptions.