Susanne comes into the room, saying to Helen who lies in bed, listlessly staring out of the window into the frosty morning:

"Madame's bath is ready."

Helen rises and goes toward the bath-room. Her movements are languid, spiritless. Her face indicates a sleepless night. When she takes her seat at the dressing-table, she remarks briefly:

"Make me look my best this morning. I am particularly anxious this morning."

"Yes, Madame."

The maid works deftly, and soon Helen, perfectly equipped, opens her door. She gives a furtive glance down the hall.

Braine's room door stands open, and she gets a glimpse of Sherry brushing a dress coat within. She knows that Braine is up, and thinks he has probably gone out. She goes collectedly down the stairs, and enters the breakfast room.

Braine sits in the alcove, reading the morning papers. As she enters, he looks up and says:

"Listen to this, Helen," and he begins reading a sensational article implicating the Graysons in a scandal so thinly disguised in the telling, that the disguise serves only to emphasize what lies beneath it, as a veil often accentuates the face it pretends to conceal.

After a few words touching this affair, Braine says, as though suddenly remembering the matter:

"I was sorry to disappoint you last night, dear—"

Helen interrupts him, raising her eyebrows, and saying, curiously:

"Disappoint me?"

"By not joining you as I promised."

"Oh!" in a calm, indifferent tone, as though she had quite forgotten the circumstance.

"I happened to remember at the last minute that Weldon was to leave on the early train for the north, and I had to see him without fail before he left, so I ran down to his hotel. We talked until three o'clock, and I knew you were so tired that you would be asleep by then."

She replies calmly:

"Oh yes, I was asleep by then. It was quite as well, I was very tired."

Her indifference is so apparent that it amounts to scant courtesy.

This piques Braine a little, and he involuntarily looks up, and says in a tone just a trifle acid:

"Had I known that it was 'just as well,' I should have had my breakfast thirty minutes ago, and been down town. Perhaps I was justified, however, in making the mistake and losing valuable time. You were last evening—somewhat—impulsive, if I remember rightly."

He is annoyed this morning. He smiles a little indulgently.

Helen has been looking into his eyes while he has spoken. She rises with an indescribable air. She says in an icy tone of reproof:

"You are intolerable, sir," and leaves the room.

Braine bites his lip. He sees his mistake—the first of its kind he ever made—and how unpardonable it must seem to a delicate woman like Helen! He is surprised and annoyed at himself, and finishing his breakfast quickly, hurries away.

The day drags slowly. Helen does not leave her room again. Everet calls, and she sends him word that she has a headache—to call in the evening, about half-past eight.

She means to get this matter off her hands at once. The situation—under the circumstances—is becoming unbearable. She can neither read nor write to-day, and time drags heavily.

When she recalls last night, and Braine's affront this morning, she feels her face tingle with mortification. That she should humiliate herself sufficiently to sue for Braine's caresses, and then be ignored, neglected, forgotten, was bad enough; that he should refer to the matter as her disappointment was worse; but that he should remind her of her part in it, is not to be endured.

She finds herself biting her lip or clenching her hands until the pain reminds her of what she is doing.

Toward evening, she throws herself on the bed and sleeps.