"You know I was not speaking in my
own name. Last night Madame de Beaufort
seemed very miserable, and I was
sorry for her. Her husband neglects her,
and she meets with no sympathy from her
family."

"That may be, but is it my fault?
The one only social intimacy I have ever
permitted myself is this friendship with
her parents. I like them for themselves,
am grateful for their unvarying kindness,
and with me gratitude is a duty, a passion,
a religion; and I like them because they
are what they are—Americans, and not
Europeans. Why should I separate from
them to please her? As to her husband—
but I scorn to justify myself, let her think
what she pleases. At least, I have two
firm friends in you and Sorrow."

She smiled and held out her hand. Her
words touched me to the heart. "Two
firm friends!" I repeated, as I pressed her
hand.

She closed her eyes for a minute or two
and then opened them suddenly, and asked
me abruptly,

"What do you think of that face?"

I followed the direction of her eyes.
Opposite her couch was a photographic
portrait, life size, of a man.

There was something very noble and
commanding in his air. The eyes were
keen and penetrating. There was force
and energy in every lineament of the face.
Its predominant characteristic was utter
ruthlessness. It was a face more to fear
than to trust. In the eyes was an
expression of dauntless daring, which seemed
as if they must have compelled obedience in
the most rebellious. It was the face of a
leader, but not of a patriot or a hero.

"It is a striking countenance," I said.
"Who is it? . . . Beg your pardon."

"It is the portrait of the man to whom
I owe everything."

"Your——?"

"My nothing," she said. "The tie
between us is of his making alone. He has
been my benefactor, my saviour, my earthly
providence. He is my guide and my
conscience, and I am a thing in his hands, to
be bent and moulded according to his will.
Like the corpse which the Jesuits think is
the proper ideal to be held up for the
imitation of their neophytes. The Ego dead,
and the brain and heart but instruments
for others to use."

These words gave me exquisite pain, I
do not know why. Did they solve the
enigma of her life?

At that moment her servant entered and
spoke to her hastily in German.

"Yes," I heard her say, "let him
come in."

The same messenger who had been with
her when I entered returned. He spoke
volubly, and she started up with
displeasure.

"How extraordinary! I gave him three
packets, and he says I gave him but two.
He must have dropped one."

The man brought her desk, she opened
it and examined its contents, but the
missing packet was not there. They looked
about the room, under the couch, but it
was nowhere to be seen.

"I must write it all over again, and he
leaves this evening. I would not have
this happen for the world."

"Can I help you? Cannot you dictate
to me?"

She looked at me with a curious expression.
"It would be a great help, but I do
not write in English or French."

"I can write German."

"No, I had better do it myself, and at
once. Au revoir." She held out her hand.
It was burning, the blue veins under the
transparent surface could have been counted,
they were so distinctly traced. On her
cheek were two red spots, and her eyes
looked dilated and dazzlingly bright. I
took my leave, descended the stairs of her
private apartments, for I did not care to
go through the drawing-room again, and
passed through the garden. Had I known
that I should never be in that garden
again with Irene, I should not have dashed
through it so hastily, I think, but I was
angry—angry with myself and perhaps
with her too.

Grubbing in a corner of it I saw Sorrow.
He was scratching with his fore-paws behind
some bushes in that quick furtive manner
with which dogs bury a bone. When he
had concluded he tore after me (I had
reached the outer gate), as if to ask me
why I left. I stooped down and caressed
him, and saw a paper between his jaws,
which I took from him, and threw away
as I caressed him. I told the intelligent
beast his mistress was waiting for him,
and after looking in my face with those
great, brown, wistful eyes of his, he turned
and rushed into the house. As I looked
after him I saw a white dress coming
towards the spot where I stood, and not
wishing to meet any one, I left at once.

That same evening I heard she was too