She returned to town in the highest spirits, and the first thing she did was to write to Ralph Webster.

“Come and dine with me to-morrow night,” she wrote. “I have some wonderful news to tell you. I shall be alone, and we will dine at eight.

K. W.”

Ralph Webster received this tiny note the next morning, and after a little consideration he determined to accept her invitation. He naturally felt a strange interest in Kathleen Weir’s proceedings, and wondered what her news could be; wondered if in any way it could affect the one woman of whom he ever thought.

He had seen May Churchill the day before, and had noticed on her fair face a certain new serenity; a new peace, as if her bitter pain had passed away. And he had heard also from his friend, Doctor Brentwood, that the young probationer was learning to be a most excellent nurse; that she took interest in and studied her duties, and that some of the patients had said that her face was like an angel’s as she stood by their bedsides.

May, in truth, was learning something besides nursing. She was learning the stern, sad lessons of life. The sick and sorrowing taught her these; taught her to look beyond the passing joys and hopes of earth. She knew now that her sorrow had not been greater than that of others, nor her cross heavier to bear. So patiently and bravely did she do the work that lay nearest to her hand.

To Ralph Webster she naturally felt very grateful, and she had said something of this the last time he had seen her. But he still had never spoken of his strong, deep feelings toward her. He had not, in fact, the same opportunities of doing this at the hospital as he had at Hastings. But he was only biding his time. “Some day I will try to win her,” he told himself each time he saw her; “some day she will forget, and cease to grieve.”

He was thinking of her as he drove to the flat occupied by Miss Kathleen Weir; thinking of her, as he always did, with tender and protecting love. But the handsome woman who rose to welcome him amid her flowers and the ornate decorations of her room, naturally knew nothing of this secret of his heart. Kathleen Weir received him with smiles and real pleasure. She looked in his dark, earnest face and compared him mentally with the man she had seen the day before.

“He is worth winning,” she thought; “worth everything—at least to me.”

“And what is your wonderful news?” asked Webster, smiling, after they had shaken hands and Kathleen Weir had once more sank down on the satin couch from which she had risen at his entrance.

“Wait until we have dined,” she answered, gaily. “It is so wonderful it would take away your appetite if we did not.”

“Very well, I am content to wait,” said Webster, and a few minutes after dinner was served. It was a luxurious little meal. Kathleen had spared nothing to make it attractive and agreeable, and during it she was bright and charming, and Webster thought he had never seen her look so well.

Then, when it was over, she rose in her lithe way and returned to the drawing-room, followed by Webster.

“Now, I am going to give you a great surprise,” she said; “where will you sit?”

He drew a chair and placed it near her.

“Well, I am prepared to be surprised,” he answered, with a smile.

“Yet you will never guess where I was yesterday. You will never guess who I saw. I went down to Woodlea Hall; I had a long interview with John Temple, its new owner.”

A dark flush rose to Webster’s face as he listened to these words.

“I went, in fact, to try to do a stroke of business, and I did it. You did not seem inclined to do it for me, and there was no one else in whom I had absolute trust but myself. I went to Woodlea for the purpose of seeing John Temple, and making him a polite offer to get rid of me. It is a splendid place, and I told him that I had no idea I had made such a good match.”

“And you saw him?” said Webster, with a great effort.

“Of course I saw him. I told him I was quite as tired of being married to him as he could be of being married to me. And I told him also it was no use his trying to get a divorce from me, as he had nothing to go upon. ‘But,’ I added, ‘I can get one from you. I have only to invent that you tore the hair out of my head, and beat me black and blue, to win my case’ and my gentleman did not deny it.”

“But surely you will not—”

“But surely I will,” went on Kathleen Weir, as Webster paused and hesitated. “However, I have not told you all. ‘And as you are a rich man,’ I continued, ’you must pay for your freedom. I am ready to swear falsely; to rid you of a wife to whom you are indifferent, and who is perfectly indifferent to you, but I must be paid for it.’ He made no objections, and I named the sum I would accept—ten thousand pounds—and to this also he made no objections. Now, don’t you think it was very clever of me?”

“But—have you any case against him?”

“Of course I have a case, and we can arrange the particulars between us. He won’t deny the hair-pulling and the beatings, and the judge will believe me to be an injured woman, and give me the release I am dying for. I will be free—free and rich—and perhaps then—”

Her voice faltered as she said the last few words, for the first time during this interview, and her eyes fell. Webster’s eyes also fell, and he moved uneasily, and then he rose and went toward the fireplace and stood leaning against the mantel-piece.

Kathleen Weir glanced after him; then also rose and followed him to where he was standing.

“Do not think me hard, or cold, or mercenary,” she said, “in making this bargain. I—I was not thinking of myself when I did so. I make a large income by my profession; more than I need. But I wanted this sum—Ralph Webster, shall I tell you why?”

She put out her white hand as she spoke, and laid it on his arm. It was trembling, and Webster saw it tremble, and an embarrassed silence followed for a few moments between them.

“Shall I tell you why?” she presently repeated, in a soft, low voice, and she looked up in his face. “I wanted it for you—for you, for whose sake I wish also to be free.”

“Hush, hush, do not speak thus,” said Webster, in great agitation. “I thank you very much for your kindness, your friendship—but—”

“But what?” asked Kathleen, quickly, and her face grew pale.

“There—there is a girl, a woman,” faltered Webster, “whom I may never marry—who—who does not love me, yet—”

“You love her?” said Kathleen, with a sort of gasp.

“Yes, and I shall love no other—forgive me, Miss Weir—but this is true.”

Again there was a few moments’ painful silence, and then with a strong effort the actress recovered herself.

“Well, there is no harm done,” she said, and she turned away. “And for the matter of that,” she added, with a harsh little laugh, “I am not divorced yet; I may never be!”

Ten minutes later—after Webster was gone—Kathleen Weir was pacing up and down her drawing-room in a state of intense and concentrated excitement.

“Am I so mad,” she said, speaking aloud to herself, “to let this folly utterly upset me? I have wasted my affections then for the second time, but it won’t kill me! Webster shall not think he has broken my heart any more than the other one did. Yet I like him,” and her face softened; “he has a great heart—and the girl, the woman, whoever she is, may be proud of her conquest. But I am not going to pine; life isn’t long enough to waste on a vain regret.”

After this she went back into the room where they had dined and took up one of the half-emptied champagne bottles and poured some of it into a glass and drank it. Then she rang the bell and ordered her brougham to come around for her in half an hour, and having done that she sat down to her desk and wrote and dispatched telegrams to Linda Falconer, to Lord Dereham, and to two other men that she knew, inviting them to supper that evening at half-past eleven o’clock. Presently she sent out and ordered an elaborate supper to be sent in from a confectioner’s; ordered everything she could think of; the most expensive luxuries she could buy.

When she had completed her arrangements she drove to one of the theaters to pass the time until her expected guests would arrive. A man she knew joined her there, and she invited him also to return with her to supper. She seemed in the wildest spirits; she laughed and jested, and showed her white teeth; all the while a cold sharp pang lay pressing on her heart.

The supper was a great success, and never had Kathleen Weir been so witty or so gay. She sang, she coquetted, and played her part so well that Linda Falconer looked at her with her shadowed, dreamy eyes, and asked her if she had come into a fortune.

“I have the prospect of one, at all events,” answered Kathleen; “and there is nothing like money, you know, Linda—nothing, nothing!”

“I think there is something better than money,” said Dereham, with his honest brown eyes fixed on Linda Falconer’s lovely face.

“You mean love!” And Kathleen Weir shrugged her white shoulders. “My friend, that is because you are young and innocent. Love is a delusion, a pitfall into which we stumble only to find it full of disappointments. We love a man or a woman whom at the time we think perfection, but it is not the true man or woman, but an idealized creature of our own imaginations. We find this out when it is too late, and we blame the unfortunate recipient of our deluded affections, not our own folly in being deluded.”

“Well, I believe in love,” answered Dereham, sturdily.

“Long may you believe in it, then,” said Kathleen, with a light laugh. “But, Dereham, you won’t. You too will wake up and find your idol shattered.”

“How spiteful you are, Kathleen!” remarked Linda Falconer, calmly. “Have you had a disappointment in love lately?”

“No, my dear, for I have not been in love. I love myself too well to waste my affections on an ungrateful man.”

“But you might find a grateful one?” said one of her friends, smiling.

“I doubt it, greatly. However, I do not mean to try. I mean to amuse myself, and if you are always thinking of one person it is impossible to do so.”

She talked in this strain a little longer and then rose and went to the piano, and presently her wonderfully clear and ringing voice filled the room. The men present stood around her, except Lord Dereham, who remained in the supper-room with Linda Falconer.

“How excited Kathleen Weir is to-night! Do you think she has taken too much champagne?” remarked Linda of her friend.

Dereham laughed.

“Can’t tell,” he said; “but that was all rot she talked.”

“Do you mean about love?” asked Linda, softly, and for a moment she looked in Dereham’s face, and then cast down her beautiful eyes with a sigh.

“Yes,” he answered, ardently, and he bent forward and took her white hand. “I believe in it—and—and Linda, don’t you?”

“I—try not to think of it,” she half-whispered.

“But why?”

“Because—ah, Dereham, you must not ask;” and again she sighed.

“But I do ask, and I want you to answer me. Why do you try not to think of love?”

“Because—the—the person I could love is not as I am.”

“How do you mean?”

“His rank is different to mine,” answered Linda, in a low, sad tone.

“His rank! What has rank to do with it? If a man really loves he never thinks of these things. Linda, who is the person you could love? Will you tell me?”

Again Linda looked in his face, and their eyes met; Linda’s said very plainly—at least she intended them to say—“You are the person I could love”; and thus Dereham understood their meaning.

“Then—then do love me, dearest,” he said, bending closer, and half-whispering in her ear. “Let my rank be yours; your life be mine—be my wife?”

Linda Falconer smiled gently as she listened to the words. She had wished to listen to them for some little while, but she had not been in a hurry. She was too wise, too cold, to allow the young man to think she was in any haste to receive his proposal. But as he had proposed, she was also too wise to allow the opportunity to pass.

“But are you sure, quite sure, of your own heart?” she asked, pensively. “You heard what Kathleen Weir said—and—and unless you really love me—”

“I do most deeply, most truly; I have thought of this almost ever since I met you, but I was never sure of you; you do not make a rush at a fellow like some women do, and—and though I was afraid I liked you all the better for it.”

He made this ingenious confession to a woman who knew very well he was speaking the truth. She had intended to win this young lord, and she had won him, and no doubt had done it cleverly.

“I was afraid too,” she said, softly, “afraid to love you—at least to show my love—but not now.”

And before the party broke up she had time to whisper her news to Kathleen Weir.

“It is all settled,” she said; “we are engaged,” and her eyes were bright with triumph.

Kathleen Weir listened, and somehow another woman’s success and happiness gave her a fresh pang.

“So this cold, selfish woman has won, and I have lost,” she thought, bitterly, after her guests had left her. All her high spirits had now died away; she sat wearily down, but after a while returned to the supper-room and drank several glasses of champagne to benumb the aching pain at her heart. As a rule, she was a very sober woman, and the unusual quantity of wine that she had taken quickly affected her. She walked, but not very steadily, back into the drawing-room, and as she did so her foot tripped on a cushion that someone had accidentally thrown and left on the floor. She stumbled, and to save herself from falling caught hold of a brass floor-lamp, and in doing so overturned it. And in an instant—before her first agonized cry could escape her lips—the burning oil streamed over her bare neck, throat, and arms, and the light dress that she wore was in flames.

She uttered shriek after shriek, and ran—a burning mass—to the door of the room. A gentleman who lived in the flat above her heard her cries and quickly came to her assistance. He promptly wrapped her in a coverlet that he caught up, and succeeded, after a few minutes, in crushing out the cruel flames; but she was terribly burned, and the decorated room where the accident occurred, which she had made so bright with flowers when she had awaited Webster’s coming, was one blackened ruin ere the fire died out.