"Anything the matter, Marie Celeste?"

"No, only--Chris, Dorothy is crying so! She won't tell me what is the matter. She says she's had bad news in a letter."

He went to his room, abruptly.

"It's probably nothing; I shouldn't worry."

His voice sounded rather strange and unnatural, and Marie was puzzled as she went slowly downstairs.

The postman had just been and one of the servants was sorting the letters at the hall table. Marie went up to her.

"Greyson, were there any letters for Miss Webber by the afternoon post?"

"No, ma'am--none! Only two for Miss Chester."

Marie's brown eyes dilated.

"There has only been the one post since the early morning, hasn't there?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you." She went on to the drawing-room, with a little feeling of apprehension.

Dorothy had lied to her, then. Why? She thought of the strained note in Chris' voice as he spoke to her on the landing, and a nameless fear crept into her heart.

Chris talked incessantly during dinner. Marie had never seen him so gay, and though she tried her best to kill it, the suspicion that he knew the cause of Dorothy's distress, grew in her heart.

Something had happened between them that afternoon.

"You ladies are very quiet," Feathers said, turning to her, and Marie roused herself with an effort.

Dorothy Webber was almost silent. Her head ached, she said; she thought it must have been the sun that afternoon.

"You played a fine game," Chris told her. "I shall have to look to my laurels." She did not answer, seemed not to have heard, and Marie asked, "Did you see Mrs. Heriot?"

"Yes. She and her sister had a foursome with us." It was Chris who answered "She told me to give you her love." he added with a twinkle, "and to say that she should be in town to-morrow and would call to see you."

It was in the tip of Marie's tongue to say that she would not be in, but she checked the words. After all, Mrs. Heriot did not matter to her. She was no longer actively jealous.

The dinner was hardly a success.

"What's the matter with everyone?" Dorothy asked impatiently as she and Marie followed Miss Chester to the drawing-room. "Didn't you think we were all very dull?" she appealed to the old lady.

"I really didn't notice, my dear," Miss Chester answered complacently. "I have just worked it out in my mind, and I believe I shall finish that shawl in another three days."

Marie laughed. "And how long has it taken you to work, dear?"

"Nearly two years, but then I worked slowly, and my sight is not so good as it used to be," Miss Chester answered.

Marie took up a fold of the shawl. It was exquisitely soft and of the finest pattern.

"It would make a lovely shawl for a baby," she said, and then flushed, meeting her aunt's eyes. She got up and went over to the piano, and began turning over some music. She knew the thought that had been in Miss Chester's mind, and her heart ached. Young as she was herself Marie loved children, and one very tender dream had gone crashing to earth with the ruins when her castle fell.

Dorothy had flung herself into an armchair, her arms folded behind her head, her eyes fixed moodily on the ceiling.

There was a softened, chastened look about her this evening. The masculinity which was usually her chief characteristic seemed to have gone, leaving in its place something of greater attraction.

"Play something, Marie," she said suddenly, but Marie shook her head. "I don't feel in the mood for music." She dragged up a stool and sat down at Miss Chester's feet. Across the hall she could hear Feathers' voice and Chris' laugh, and she listened to both with a queer feeling of unreality.

"What an ugly man Mr. Dakers is!" Dorothy said suddenly. "I don't think I ever saw anyone so ugly before."

The color rushed to Marie's face.

"I don't think he is in the very least bit ugly," she said impulsively. "There is something in his face when he smiles that is far better than just ordinary good looks. What do you think, Aunt Madge?"

She felt angry with Dorothy. All her heart flew to Feathers'

defence.

"I always liked Mr. Dakers," Miss Chester said mildly. "He is a good man and a gentleman." She said the same thing of all Chris'

friends. She could never see evil in anyone.

Dorothy laughed.

"Like him, yes! But he's ugly, all the same!" she insisted. "He doesn't like me, you know."

n.o.body answered.

"We had lots of little tiffs when we were up in Scotland," she went on defiantly. "I always believe that he left Chris and came home alone because he couldn't stand the sight of me."

"My dear child!" Miss Chester remonstrated.

"So I do," she reiterated. "He told me once that the modern girl was a horror. I think he thought it was disgraceful because I played golf all day long with Chris and without a chaperon."

"Mr. Dakers isn't a bit narrow-minded," Marie said hotly.

Dorothy shrugged her shoulders.

"And I don't like Mrs. Heriot either," she said irrelevantly. "You never told me anything about her, Marie."

"She is a friend of Chris', not mine."

"Oh! And his friends are not yours--eh?"

Marie did not answer. She had never seen Dorothy in such a quarrelsome mood.

The men joined them from the dining-room and Chris came to his wife at once.

"On the stool of repentance?" he asked. "Why don't you have a chair?"