Stephen de Lisle’s second letter, eagerly looked for by Madame Claire, came the following week.

“Dear Claire,

“Thank God for your letter. It’s put new life into me; and I assure you, I needed it. Of course it’s all tommyrot what you say about old age. Who wouldn’t want to run and jump about again, and be able to digest anything, and sit up late at night? I think this having to be coddled and looked after is an infernal nuisance.

“Yes, I was a fool to take your refusal as I did, but that can’t be helped now. You forgive me, and besides, I know well enough the loss was mine. But I couldn’t have endured London all these years. Too many people, too much noise, and too much dirt. Still, I may, gout and rheumatism permitting, come to see you and my godson and the grandchildren yet. I’m glad you remembered how fond I was of that child Judy. Most attractive child I ever saw. Twenty-seven, you say? It doesn’t seem possible. Don’t let her get married in a hurry. She is perfectly right to wait for the real thing. Instinct is the lead to follow, and hers is a right one.

“That was a wonderful letter of yours, Claire. I hope there will be many more. They give me something to look forward to. I haven’t a half dozen young people about me as you have. I’ve one niece, Monica de Lisle. Ugly, churchy, uninteresting female. You may remember her.

“Cannes is delightful, but alas! I am too old to enjoy more than the sun and the color of the sky. How do you manage to keep so young in your mind? Bob used to say you’d die young if you lived to be a hundred, and he was right.

“I’m reading Shakespeare mostly. I find the old ones the best, and he’s the best of the old ones. Omniscient, he was.

“Well, well, write again soon. Don’t tire yourself, but—write soon. Do you remember old Jock Wetherby? He’s here at this hotel. Tottering on the brink, and ten years my junior. Drink—women—all the cheapening vices. Looks it, too.

“Tell me about Judy and the others.

“Yours ever,

“Stephen.”

“P.S.—I’ve got the ugliest nurse in Christendom.”

Madame Claire read extracts from this letter to Judy, who was immensely pleased at the impression she must have made.

“Though what he saw in me, I can’t think,” she said. “My chief points, judging from photographs, were shoe-button eyes, a fringe, and a prominent stomach. But there’s no accounting for these infatuations.”

“I do wish he would come to London,” said Madame Claire as she folded the letter. “After all, London is the best place for old people. They get more consideration here than anywhere else in the world.”

The Kensington Park Hotel certainly harbored its share. On those rare occasions when Madame Claire took a meal in the dining-room she was always struck by the number of white, gray, or shining pink heads to be seen. And the faces that went with them were usually placid and content. In the lounge at tea-time they fought the war over again, they made or unmade political reputations, they discussed the food, the latest play, and most of all they discussed—the women at least—Royalty and the nobility. Not even in the drawing-rooms of the very great were exalted names so freely and intimately spoken of. One old dame with an ear trumpet, who later comes into the story, had once or twice, at Judy’s or Noel’s request, been invited into Madame Claire’s sitting room. Noel called her the Semaphore. From her they learned what it was the Royal family had for breakfast the morning war was declared, or what Princess Mary said to young Lord B—— when he trod on her toe at a dance. How these stray bits of gossip or surmise ever filtered their way down the old lady’s ear trumpet was a mystery to every one. She was an old woman of strange importance. She envied no one under Heaven. She possessed a small black instrument that seemed to be the focusing point of every fine wire of invention. She seemed to be the central office of the world’s “They Say” bureau. No one was ever rude to her, and no one, except perhaps Madame Claire and her grandchildren, ever really disbelieved her, because hardly any one does altogether disbelieve rumors, even when they come from such a source. Her greatness of course was at its height during the war, when she was generously supplied with the most astounding pieces of secret information by obliging young nephews. However, she bore the flatness of peace with serenity, contenting herself with the doings of the great. Of such, with variations, is the kingdom of Kensington! A day or two later Eric and Louise came together to see Madame Claire. It was so long since they had done this that she felt a little flutter of hope, believing that it indicated a better state of things between them. But she found soon enough that she was wrong. Louise was possessed—in the sense that people one reads of in the Bible were possessed—by her own special demon of jealousy.

She was not jealous of any other woman—it was far less simple than that. She was jealous of the ease with which her husband made friends, of his popularity, of his charm. They had been guests at a rather political house party, where Eric was unmistakably the center of attraction. She was aware that she had been more tolerated than liked, and the knowledge did not contribute to her peace of mind. She was determined to make him feel (on any grounds whatsoever) inferior to her. She could understand and respect superiority of birth, but she distrusted and resented superiority of intellect.

“A most successful week-end,” Eric told his mother, drawing up a chair beside hers. “Their house is lovely, and I am very fond of them all. I should like to think that I am one-half as good a host as Charles Murray-Carstairs.” “I am glad you both enjoyed it,” said Madame Claire.

“Both?” Her daughter-in-law gave a short laugh. “Candidly I was bored to tears.”

Louise was meant to be a pretty woman, but having a regular profile and an English wild rose complexion, she relied upon them to pull her through, and wore her clothes as if she despised them. Her hair was never quite tidy at the nape of her neck, and her hats of this season were undistinguishable from those of two seasons ago. She took a pride in her lack of smartness, and had a curious and mysterious belief that it was both unladylike and unpatriotic to dress in the fashion. Although she was only thirty-four, her girlishness had gone so completely that it might never have existed. The thin nostrils and small tight mouth suggested the woman of fifty. She met Eric’s eyes with a look of antagonism.

“I’ll tell you what the visit was like, Madame Claire. We couldn’t go out because of the rain, so Eric and Charles had time to ride all their hobbies. We had old plate for luncheon, cricket for tea, and politics for dinner. I don’t know what we had for breakfast. I was spared that by not coming down.”

“You see, mother,” said Eric with a gesture of the hands, “the sufferings of a woman who is married to a bore. I know of no case more deserving of pity.”

“It’s always the same,” went on his wife, “whenever we go away together. But there are always plenty of pretty women to hang upon his words, Madame Claire, so it really doesn’t matter.”

“Now there,” interrupted Eric with a smile, “there you are wrong. Never in my life have enough pretty women hung upon my words to satisfy me. I should like to see hundreds of them so hanging, and the prettier the better. Inaccuracy,” he added, turning to his mother, “is one of Louise’s greatest faults.”

“Well, Louise,” said Madame Claire, putting a hand in one of Eric’s, “time was when you led and others followed. You never used to be shy. If you were bored with politics and old silver——”

“I’m not shy,” her daughter-in-law answered. “I think subjugated would be nearer the mark.”

Eric took this up humorously.

“I have subjugated Louise,” he said with mock pride. “I’m willing to wager that no other man could have done it under fifteen years, and it has taken me only eight. And I’ve never once used the whip. Simply and solely the power of the eye. I subjugate all my wives,” he added. “I am a terrible fellow.”

He picked up and examined an old spoon that lay on Madame Claire’s table, and was about to change the subject, when his wife’s cold voice interrupted him.

“Oh, I don’t claim that you’re any worse than the general run of husbands.”

“Thank you, my dear. I can only suppose that you took one to yourself in a moment of weakness.” Then, throwing off his annoyance:

“What a charming spoon! It’s Charles the Second. You’ve never shown me this.”

“Judy gave it to me the other day,” said Madame Claire, her face brightening. “She’s very clever at picking up these things. But then—who taught her?”

“Ah, well, you can’t teach everybody,” he answered, turning it over in his fingers.

“You can’t, for instance, teach your wife,” threw in Louise. “But there’s one thing I have learnt since my marriage, Madame Claire, and that is my limitations.”

“You underrate yourself, Louise,” said Madame Claire calmly. “Do tell me about Gordon. Noel and Judy believe he’s really interested in Helen Dane. Do you think he is?”

“He’s there a great deal,” answered Eric, “but then that may mean nothing. Ottway, her father, is a good sort, but pompous.”

“Lord Ottway has dignity, if that’s what you mean,” said Louise. “I hope Gordon does marry Helen. It would be very suitable.”

“As for suitable—I don’t know,” said Madame Claire, musingly. “The girl seems a little hard—self-sufficient. Still, I don’t dislike her.”

“I only wish Judy would do as well,” Louise went on. “She’s almost certain to throw herself away on some nobody.”

“If he were a nice nobody I shouldn’t mind,” said Madame Claire.

When Louise got up to go, Madame Claire followed her into the bedroom where her fur coat was. She longed to say something to her. She felt that the words existed that might soften that bitter mood, but she could not find the right ones. She was sick at heart with anxiety. She knew that Eric’s patience was at breaking point, and that he found his wife’s sarcasm hard to bear. Louise had only lately resorted to sarcasm—that passing bell of love—and yet, underneath it all, Madame Claire felt that she loved him, and longed to be different, but that something—some strange twist in her nature—would not let her. She seemed to her like a woman pushing her frail boat farther and farther out into a dangerous current, and all the time crying weakly and piteously for help. She doubted if that cry reached any ears but hers.

“I am the only one who can help her,” she thought, and at the same time sent up a prayer to the god who understands women—if such there be.

A few days later she sent Louise a note, asking her to come and see her.

“If I can only avoid being mother-in-lawish,” she thought, “I may be able to accomplish something.”

Louise found her sitting in her high-backed chair beside a wood fire. The room was full of the scent of freesias, and she wore a few of them in the front of her gray dress.

When Louise had put aside her wraps, Madame Claire began to say what she had to say without any unnecessary preliminaries.

“Louise, I particularly wanted a talk with you to-day. I hope you’ll be very frank with me, as I mean to be very frank with you.” “I think you’ll always find me quite willing to be frank,” replied the younger woman.

“Very well then. Perhaps you’ll tell me this. Is Eric doing everything he possibly can to make you happy?”

Louise raised her eyebrows.

“What an odd question! Yes, I suppose he is—as well as he knows how. Why?”

“Because it isn’t hard to see that you’re not happy, and it makes me very sad.”

“I suppose people do notice it,” said Louise. “I can’t help that. I’m not happy.”

“Just what I thought. Well, can you tell me the cause of it? Eric has succeeded in a good many things, and I don’t like to see him make a failure of his marriage.”

“I suppose not.”

“You two ought to be happy. You have everything; you married for love, presumably. I’m sure you’ve done your part. It must be Eric’s fault in some way.”

Louise began pulling off her gloves, her chin suddenly trembling like that of a child who is about to cry.

“It’s nobody’s fault, I suppose. We’re simply not suited to each other. Eric should have had a wife who’d be willing to sit at his feet all day long, and tell him how wonderful he is. A sort of echo.”

“Are you sure that would please him? And suppose it did—after all——”

“No!” she said with determination. “There are plenty of other people to tell him what fine speeches he makes, and how clever he is. I’m not going to be one of them. He’ll hear the truth from his wife, whether he likes it or not.”

“So you don’t think he makes good speeches?” persisted Madame Claire gently.

“I dare say he does, but——”

“I thought you said he would hear the truth from you. If he does make a good speech, I should think he’d love to hear you say so. If you do believe in him and in his ability, Louise, I wish you would let him know it. I don’t believe you have any idea how much it would mean to him.”

Louise got up and walked to the window.

“I have his ability and his cleverness thrown at me by his admirers year in and year out,” she said. “I’m sick to death of it.”

“And are you the only one who never encourages or praises him?” asked Madame Claire. “A man must find that rather bitter.”

Louise turned from the window with an abrupt movement. “I wish him to know that he can’t have admiration and flattery from every one. It will be the ruination of him.”

“Ah! I thought so. So it’s really for his good?”

”Well, as I promised to be frank, no; I don’t suppose it is. But I can’t help it. Things have always been made too easy for him. Why should he be such a darling of the gods? Life isn’t easy and pleasant for me. Why should it be for him?”

“I see.” Madame Claire laughed suddenly. “Forgive me, Louise, but there’s something rather funny in it.”

“In what?”

“In your wanting to be a sort of hair shirt. Oh, dear me, I don’t know why I laughed. Only, my dear, there’s so very little happiness in the world. I’d forgotten there were good people going about trampling on it.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“I think I’d better go away for a while,” said Louise finally.

“Do!” urged Madame Claire. “It would be an excellent thing for both of you. Stay away from Eric long enough to be glad to see him when you get back.” “If I were,” said Louise, “I’d never give him the satisfaction of knowing it.”

Madame Claire called once more on the deity who understands women.

“And yet, Louise,” she said, with all her courage, “you love him. You love Eric. I know you do. Some day you may find out how much, and it may be too late. That will be the tragedy. You’ll know that you had only to reach out your hand—you’re like a child, you know. Have you ever seen a child while playing with other children, receive some fancied slight, and withdraw, hurt? I have. The other children don’t even know what the trouble is, and they go on with their game. The hurt child stands apart, lonely and miserable. They call her presently to come and join them, and she longs to go, but can’t—can’t! Something won’t let her. Oh, I know, I know! I must have been that child once. I know what she feels. She stands there kicking at a stone, longing, yes, longing to go out into the sunshine again and play. She knows that game better than they do. They even call to her to come and lead them. But she can’t. She sulks. She doesn’t want to sulk. She suffers. And then the nurse comes, and the play is over, and she is taken off to bed. It is too late. It is finished.… Louise! You stupid child! Isn’t it something like that? Tell me, isn’t it?”

Madame Claire’s finger had found the spot, evidently. Louise’s hardness, her bravado, suddenly left her. Madame Claire had never seen her cry before, and the sight seemed to her very pitiful. Her tears made her seem younger.

“It is like that.” Her voice came muffled from the handkerchief she was pressing to her face. ”But I’m helpless. I can’t be different. I tell you I can’t. The more Eric tries to be nice to me, the more I harden toward him. The more I want to meet him half way, the less I’m able to. I’m not hard, really; I long to be different. But it’s too late. It’s grown on me now. I can’t stop it. I suppose I must go on like this forever. My life is a misery to me.”

* * * * * *

It was a prayer of thanksgiving that went up to the god who understands women that night. Madame Claire felt that now all things were possible. Where there had been a blank wall, there was now an open gate—for her, at least. How long it would be before the gate would be open to Eric, she dared not think.