knowing that she was looked on as an incubus, and she saw that her
father, as she called him, dreaded to be questioned as to their
relationship. She lived a simple life; rode and played tennis with young
Belgians of her own age; read, worked, went to such dances and
entertainments as were given in the little town, and did not, on the
whole, waste much time puzzling over the mystery that surrounded her
childhood. But when her friends asked her why she never went to England
with Sir Arthur, she did not know what answer to make, and worried
herself in secret about it.

Why did he not take her? Because he was ashamed of her? But why was he
ashamed? Her mother--she always thought of Lady Byrne by that name--had
said she was the daughter of a friend of hers. So that she must at least
be the child of people of good family. Was not that enough?

She was already twenty-three when Sir Arthur married again. The lady was
an American: Mrs. Clarency Butcher, a good-looking widow of about
thirty-five, with three little girls, of whom the eldest was fifteen. She
had not the enormous wealth which is often one of her countrywomen's most
pleasing attributes, but she was moderately well off and came of a good
Colonial family. Having lived for several years in England, she had grown
to prefer the King's English to the President's, and had dropped, almost
completely, the accent of her native country. She was extremely well
educated, and talked three other languages with equal correctness, her
first husband having been attached to various European legations.
Altogether, she was a charming and attractive woman, and there were many
who envied Sir Arthur for the second time in his life.

It was not, perhaps, her fault that she did not take very kindly to
Juliet. The girl resented the place once occupied by her dead mother