The talk which Stephanie and Gladys Chamberlain had the following morning was prolonged into the after luncheon hours.

It was an intimate, personal conference, wherein Stephanie recounted every material incident of the Amherst affair. She told her friend all, freely and without reserve: how the affair started; how it progressed; of Lorraine's indifference or blindness; how it culminated; where she and Amherst went; what they did; how they avoided their acquaintances; how she grew to hate Amherst; his brutalities and meannesses; their slow rupture; the final break; the return, with the episode of yesterday on the Club-house piazza, and her husband's refusal even to recognize her.

"He wasn't altogether accountable, I fancy," said Gladys kindly. "He has had his trials too, Stephanie, you must remember."

"I do remember—or I try to," Stephanie replied; "but I can never forget his conduct or his want of conduct—his stupidity and want of sight. He could have saved me, and he didn't."

"Would you have given up Amherst, if Harry had demanded it of you?"

"Yes—if he had demanded it like a man. If he had thrashed Amherst within an inch of his life, I think I should have adored him."

"Instead, he did the usual thing—thought that his wife could be trusted, or he didn't perceive. In either of which events, I don't see that he is much to blame. Give Henry Lorraine his due, dear. He isn't much of a character possibly; he is irresolute and hesitating despite his size and appearance. Yet I had hoped that you would make it up—for your sake."

"For my sake!" marvelled Stephanie.

"It's a lot easier, you know," Gladys nodded, "to resume the old life, than to cut out a new one—now."

"Perhaps so—but how long would the reconciliation last?"

"Long enough for Society to forget the past. If the husband forgives, who else may say a word?"

"It may be the way of expediency; it is not my way," answered Stephanie. "However, if Harry Lorraine had made the slightest sign of forgiveness—of recognition when he saw me—even if he had but bowed, it might be different. Now, I am done with him forever."

"Don't you think you put him to a rather hard test?" asked Gladys. "Without a word of warning you encountered him on the Club-house piazza, before the assembled mob, and he—failed. Could you expect anything else from one of his character?"

"Possibly not," admitted Stephanie, as she daintily flicked the ash from her tiny cigarette. "He is true to type, and it is the type to which I object. Between taking him back (assuming that he would have me back) or fighting it out alone, I much prefer to fight it out alone. It may require longer, but it hasn't the drag.... I had thought of going elsewhere, but that will only postpone the struggle a little while and will make it all the harder when it comes—for sooner or later they are sure to find me out. I even considered changing my name—that, too, has innumerable obstacles, with the necessity of living a lie and the constant fear of being detected." She flung her cigarette out of the window and flexed her silken knees under her. "So, on the whole, I thought it better to return and fight. I can down it soonest, if at all, at my home; and then it will stay down. I have a nasty thing to confront. I've been all kinds of a fool, and no one realizes it more than myself; but I'm not going to be weighted down with Harry Lorraine, nor to sacrifice myself again for him—no not even for a little while, not even for my rehabilitation. He didn't save me when he might, and I'm not going to give him another chance. I prefer to make my way alone without any aid from him."

"Without any aid from him, possibly, but not alone," Gladys replied. "Some of your friends are standing by you, and more will follow—many more, I hope, and soon. I shall ask Margaret Middleton, Arabella Rutledge, Helen Burleston, and Sophia Westlake to lunch with us Tuesday. They will do as a starter, I think."

"My dear Gladys!" Stephanie exclaimed, "I don't deserve such friendship as yours. I am——"

The other interrupted her with a gesture.

"You are Stephanie Mourraille to me—no matter what you did or may do. Isn't that enough? So let us forget it."

"I can't forget it, dear," Stephanie answered.

"Well, you can make a bluff at it!" Gladys laughed, as she arose to go. "I'll telephone you to-morrow about the luncheon, unless I see you before then. What are you doing to-morrow morning?"

"I've nothing to do," said Stephanie. "I'm not pressed with engagements as yet."

"I hope not—I want mine to be the first," Gladys returned easily. "I'll be at home all morning so if you can come over you'll find me in."

"Do you quite appreciate what you're about to do?" Stephanie protested.

Gladys stopped and looked at her thoughtfully a moment.

"Stephanie," said she, "if you are going to play this hand through you must not think for your friends. Let them think for you, and act as they see fit—and don't you be bothering about what is past."

"I'm not bothering—except for my friends," was the answer.

"And your friends are amply able to look out for themselves. They are not obligated to do anything for you unless they choose. You just sit tight in the saddle and give the mare her head—above all, don't fret her. You understand."

"I understand," said Stephanie, "but I fear I'll do nothing but fret them, so to speak—at least for a time. Under the circumstances, I'm rather a weight to carry, especially when the going is apt to be both rough and heavy."

"You can never tell what the going is until you ride it," said Gladys heartily. "Sometimes the field worse on the surface is the best underneath."

After Gladys had gone, Stephanie grew restless. She tried to read, but she could not keep her mind on even the print; as for the story, it made no more impression on her than a passing carriage.... Presently she laid the book aside and tried to sleep.... It was futile also—more futile even than the attempt to read.... Finally the restlessness became unbearable in the quiet of the house. She sprang up; she would go out—maybe the soft spring air and the out-of-doors would calm her. She wanted to go—go—go! To do something....

She dressed hurriedly—putting on a quiet street-suit with a small hat, and a white veil to conceal her face from the casual passer-by. As she passed her mother's door Mrs. Mourraille saw her.

"I'm going out for a walk," Stephanie said in answer to the look of polite inquiry. "I must do something—I'm as nervous as a filly."

"It will do you good," replied Mrs. Mourraille. "Do you wish me to go with you?"

"If you don't mind, ma mÈre, I think I can walk off better alone—you understand?"

"Perfectly, my dear," her mother smiled. "We understand each other, I hope," as Stephanie bent and kissed her.

Once on the Avenue and swinging along at rapid pace, Stephanie felt better—the restlessness was having vent.

It was Sunday and the people she passed were mainly of the working class. They were out for an airing on the only day of the week that permitted. Occasionally she encountered some one whom she knew, but the veil was excuse for neither seeing them, nor noticing that they saw—if they did. Now and then, some man would stare impertinently at her; but it lasted only for the instant. She was passing, and she did not mind—for there again the veil was her protection, though she knew that, like enough, the veil was the reason or the excuse for the stare.

She reached the entrance to the Park and turned in, choosing presently a bridle-path that took off from the main drive. It was retired and quiet, and ran amid the great trees from which vines hung in huge festoons of verdure. The path was soft and in fine condition, and on the turf that bordered it the foot fell without sound or shock. Overhead the birds whistled and sang, the wind played lightly among the leaves through which the sun penetrated timidly as though uncertain of its welcome.

After a mile or two she unconsciously hummed a song, and realized it only when it ended and the break came. She smiled to herself, and began to whistle softly one of the airs from In a Persian Garden. When it was finished, she whistled it again.

Presently she came to a rustic seat—a plank between two trees. She had walked now for more than an hour and the cool shade and the quiet spot appealed to her. She sat down and undid her veil. She would stay a moment and rest her eyes—the white mesh had been more than usually severe under the glint of the light through the foliage. Not a soul had passed her since she had entered on the bridle-path. The noise of the city was very distant—she could scarcely hear it. At intervals came the faint clang of a gong, the whistle of a locomotive, the exhaust of an automobile on an up-grade.

She did not see the man who, his horse's bridle rein over his arm, rounded the turn and came slowly toward her. Her back was toward them and on the soft path the steps of the horse were almost without noise.

When she did hear them and, startled, swung suddenly around, it was to come face to face with Harry Lorraine.

The recognition was mutual and simultaneous.

He stopped and surveyed her with scrutinizing glance—a bit of a frown furrowed between the eyes, the eyes themselves half closed.

She regarded him with a look as impersonally indifferent as though he were the most casual stranger, then shifted it with interest to his horse.

"So!" he said, after a moment's steady stare. "You have returned—after your paramour has cast you off. Whom do you wait for now, I wonder?"

The cold insult of the words were more than she could endure.

"Not you, at all events!" she retorted.

He laughed mirthlessly—a hollow, mocking laugh that seemed to wrench his very soul.

"No, not me," he answered—"even your effrontery would hesitate at the same victim twice."

She shrugged her shoulders and made no reply.

He waited, while the horse drew over and began to crop the grass at her feet. At length, he spoke again.

"What do you intend to do, Mrs. Lorraine—have you come back with the purpose of driving some bargain with me—a bargain that will leave you a trifling semblance of your good name?"

A slight smile curled her lovely lips but she made no answer.

"Because, if you have," he went on, "I warn you that it will be unavailing."

The idea of his warning her of anything now, after the way he had stood back and let her drift upon the rocks, was so intensely absurd that she laughed.

"You would warn me!" she inflected. "Warn me!" and she laughed again. "Do you think you are capable of warning any one?"

He saw her meaning and his face grew pale with anger.

"You think that I might have warned you before?" he broke out. "Yes, I might——"

"And you did not!" she interrupted. "Therefore you are a contemptible knave not to have saved your own wife."

"I might have warned you," he repeated slowly, "if I had suspected you were in danger of forgetting your marriage vows."

"Then you were a fool for not realizing it.—You had plenty of warning."

"Plenty of warning, yes—in the light of the after events. But no warning whatever on the basis of trust and confidence. I never thought of your being crooked, until you proved it before all the world."

"Just so!" she exclaimed. "I proved it before all the world—which think you is worse: the woman who does, or the husband who through blindness or indifference suffers another man to rob him of his wife before his very eyes?"

"The wife who is worthless is never missed!" he retorted.

"Then what quarrel have you for my going?" she demanded, "more than hurt vanity?"

"It's not your going—it's your coming back that irritates me."

"Irritates!" she laughed. "I am sorry to have irritated you—sorry to have irritated one so childish. It may affect your mind, Mr. Lorraine."

"If my mind has survived the last two years, I think it can survive a trifle more. Nevertheless," he sneered, "I am deeply sensible of the consideration you would show me."

"What are you going to do about it?" she asked sharply.

"I don't quite follow your train of thought," he answered.

"Of course not—it was dreadfully involved," she mocked. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Lorraine. I meant what are you going to do now that I have returned—divorce me?"

"Yes—divorce you," he answered bluntly.

"And without delay?"

"As quickly as the Courts can cut us asunder."

"I am glad," she said. "I rather feared you might make overtures for a reconciliation."

"A reconciliation?" he exclaimed incredulously.

She nodded. "You seem uncertain of your own mind—your letters, you know, were rather childish and vacillating."

"I know my own mind now, thank God," he answered, his voice tense. "If I didn't know it before, it was because your beauty had befuddled it into imbecility. Oh! you may smile, with all the assumed credulity you can muster, but nevertheless you know in your own heart that I speak the truth. I did love you—loved every part of you, from your glorious hair to your slender arched feet. Loved your proud, cold face, that can glow warm enough upon occasion—I've seen it glow for me—and often; and your lips that were made for kisses—and your arms—and your flawless shoulders, white as marble, and soft as——"

Her derisive laugh broke in on him.

"Be careful, sir, or the recollection of my charms may cause you to change your mind again," she cautioned.

For a space he was silent. And she was silent, too—waiting.

At last he spoke, slowly and deliberately.

"No," he said; "the time when you held me by a smile and a nod has passed. You are just as beautiful, just as alluring, but your body is soiled with the touch of another's hands. Your lips, your hair, your arms, your shoulders—everything—have all been defiled by Amherst's caresses, and by yours."

"Am I then so polluted?" she queried. "At least," slowly stretching out her lithe limbs and looking herself over, "I see no trace of it—neither do I feel it in me."

"Your honor is not sufficiently developed to feel it, there's the pity," he answered. "You will catch another man with the same indifference you forsook me, or were yourself forsaken by Amherst. And your basilisktic beauty will be fatal alike to them and to you."

"Are you a prophet?" she asked.

"One does not need to be a prophet to foresee the apparent," he retorted.

She laughed pityingly.

"You had me unpolluted—why did you not keep me so?" she asked. "I was yours, why did you not hold me fast? You could had you tried. If I am as beautiful as you would have me believe, you were not alone in knowing it. Therefore it was for you to guard me; you were my husband—and you did not. Hence you are either faithless or incompetent, so you have only yourself to blame."

"A naturally good woman doesn't have to be guarded," he sneered.

"Which shows how little—how very little—you know!" she smiled. "You are scarcely fit to be out of the nursery, Harry—you need a guardian, not a wife."

"The Divorce Court at least will relieve me of the wife," he retorted—"and I shall not want another very soon."

"I trust not," she replied.

Two horses trotted quickly around the bend—their riders rising and falling in perfect time. An amused smile broke over Stephanie's face when she recognized Helen Burleston and Devonshire. As they flashed by, the former nodded pleasantly, the latter raised his hat. Their surprised looks, however, were not concealed—nor Lorraine's embarrassed acknowledgment.

"We are creating a scandal—a fearful scandal!" Stephanie laughed. "Husband and wife, about to be divorced, have been caught talking together in a secluded bridle-path in the Park. What can it mean?"

"It can mean anything their imagination may suggest—except the truth!" exclaimed Lorraine. "No one will ever believe it is a chance encounter."

"Thanks," said she. "You do me that much credit, at least."

"Yes; I fancy I may truthfully assume that this meeting is unpremeditated on your part as well as on mine—though you doubtless are expecting some one," he sneered. "Else why are you here?"

"For once you do me an injustice," she replied ironically.

"The circumstances speak for themselves—a secluded by-path, unfrequented on Sunday afternoons, especially by pedestrians—the thick veil which you have just laid aside, doubtless to prepare for the greeting."

"All of which you know perfectly well is not the truth!" she laughed.

He answered with an expressive shrug.

"It is not the way of those with whom you intimate that I properly belong, to appoint a rendezvous for such a place," she remarked.

"Their ways differ—this is your way. You are rather—unconventional, you know."

"Have it as you will," said she indifferently; "though, if you are correct in your assumption, don't you think the man is very laggard at the tryst?"

"Or you are early!" he cut in. "Ah! perhaps he comes!" as the canter of a horse was heard around the bend.

A moment later, Montague Pendleton came in sight.

Instantly the occurrence of yesterday at the Club—Pendleton's pre-nuptial admiration, together with the rumors current at that time, flashed to his mind. He leaned forward and bent his eyes on Stephanie's face—to meet her amusing glance.

"Perhaps he does come!" he said. "Perhaps I am de trop."

"Then why don't you go?" she asked indifferently.

It was like a blow in the face—and it angered as a blow—sharply, hotly.

He took a step toward her—recovered himself—stopped—glared at her an instant—then faced Pendleton, who was just at hand, and motioned for him to stop.

Instantly Pendleton drew rein and dismounted. His surprise he concealed under the well-bred air of courteous greeting.

"What does it mean?" he thought. "Have they become reconciled—is it a chance meeting—has Stephanie reconsidered—has Lorraine made his peace for the affront of yesterday?"

One glance at Lorraine's face, however, answered him. There had been no reconciliation—no peace made; rather had the breach widened, if that were possible. He put his arm through his bridle-rein, and coming forward took Stephanie's hand and pressed it meaningly—and got an answering pressure back. Then he nodded pleasantly to Lorraine.

"You will pardon me for intruding!" Lorraine exclaimed. "I didn't realize, until a moment ago, that Mrs. Lorraine had an appointment here with you."

Pendleton understood a little now—and he turned to Stephanie with a politely interrogating air.

"Mr. Lorraine seems to be laboring under some excitement, Stephanie," he said, "may I ask you to explain—if you think it worth while. I'll not misunderstand, however, if you do not."

"Mr. Lorraine does me the honor to think that I have an appointment to meet you here—and that he has discovered us," she answered, unperturbed.

"Is that what you mean, Lorraine?" Pendleton inquired.

"That is exactly what I mean," he burst out. "Else why do I find her here and waiting—and why do you come?"

"Don't be foolish, Lorraine," said Pendleton kindly.—"You don't mean that—you're overwrought and nervous——"

"I'm not overwrought nor nervous!" Lorraine exclaimed. "And neither am I foolish any longer. I was blind once, but I'm not blind now. Amherst's gone—and you're substituted."

Pendleton looked at him doubtfully—was it hurt pride or just plain jealousy? He could not determine. Stephanie had lost Amherst; but she had come back and Lorraine had denied her—and yet, here he was positively shaking with rage, because he thought he had surprised her in a rendezvous with another man. He had cast her off before all the world, and yet he wanted still to dictate as to what she did!

Pendleton glanced at Stephanie; she flashed him a smile, and shook her head not to become involved in a quarrel.

"Well, what have you to say?" sputtered Lorraine.

"Before I answer," returned Pendleton calmly, "I would like to know by what right you ask?"

"By what right I ask! By what right do you think I ask. Isn't she still my wife?"

"She is your wife—but you have lost all right to supervise her actions. She is free of you—absolutely free. You made her free on the Club-house piazza yesterday. You have no more authority over her than any other man—you have less, indeed, for you renounced even that when you disowned her and cast her adrift."

"So long as she bears my name, she shall not trail it in the mire in this town by a vulgar, public assignation, if I can prevent it. I have cause enough without that disgrace!" Lorraine declared. "Until the Courts have divorced us she shall be decent, ostensibly at least—afterward I don't care what she does nor when."

Pendleton frowned.

"That is discourteously blunt language, Lorraine," he replied.

"It is not the time nor the occasion to mince words," Lorraine retorted. "You are here by pre-arrangement and——"

"That is a lie—and you know it's a lie," Pendleton answered.

"In the light of her past or of yours?" was the sneering question.

Pendleton hesitated what to answer. The man was plainly laboring under intense excitement. His hands were trembling, his face was flushed, he was beating a tatoo on his boot with his crop.

Suddenly Stephanie spoke. She had remained sitting down until now.

"I think it is better that I should continue my walk," she remarked. "You men are not apt to come to an understanding, so let us go our respective ways. Mr. Pendleton, I thank you more than I can say—and I shall be glad to see you at my home any time you choose to call. I shall wait until you both are gone."

"Come, Lorraine!" Pendleton laughed good-naturedly. "We will go together."

On Stephanie's account he was willing to do anything to get him off.

"No—we will not go together," Lorraine replied curtly, ignoring the other's friendly tones and manner. "You'll go first, and I'll follow to see that you don't come back."

His bearing was quite as insulting as his words, but Pendleton did not seem to notice. It was the indulgent man and the complaining boy.

And Stephanie understood and gave Pendleton a quick glance of appreciation. He was trying to save her from further annoyance, she knew, and she loved him for it, but she had endured so much the last two years that she was hardened to a callous indifference. Once she would have been shamed to the earth by Lorraine's accusation; now it made no impression on her—she simply shrugged it aside. Indeed, she found herself studying its revelations as to her husband's character, and pitying him for this exposition of his weakness and vacillation.

"Perhaps I would better go first since Mr. Lorraine is so exacting and distrustful of a friend," she interposed. "Good-bye, Montague," giving him her hand; "I seem to be unfortunate lately with all who are disposed to be nice to me. It won't always be so, I hope; I am not all bad!" she smiled.

And with never a look at Lorraine, she passed in front of him and went down the path toward town.

Lorraine watched her go—and Pendleton watched Lorraine. When she had passed around the bend, the former turned slowly and encountered the latter's eyes.

"Pendleton," said he impulsively, "I apologize! I didn't mean it—I think I'm crazy—I must be crazy. Won't you shake hands with me?"

"Of course I will, Lorraine," Pendleton replied. "And you don't need to apologize to me—apologize to Stephanie. She is the one you owe it to."

Lorraine's face hardened.

"What do you think she owes me?" he asked.

"We are not computing the balance on the Amherst affair—we are dealing with the present instance, and in it you were wholly at fault. Because she slipped once, doesn't imply that she slips constantly, nor does it excuse you for assuming that fact. Good God! man, give your wife credit for regretting her mistake and wanting to live it down—it's the normal and rational way to look at it. Be a little charitable in your view—Stephanie needs it—we all need it."

"Do you mean that I should not divorce her—that I should take her back?"

"That question you must decide for yourself."

"I ask for your opinion."

Pendleton shook his head.

"You must decide for yourself," he repeated, preparing to mount.

"I shall decide for myself—but I want your opinion," Lorraine persisted.

Pendleton let his hand rest on the pommel of his saddle and considered. What was the best for Stephanie—to return to Lorraine or to be free of him? He was not sure she knew herself; yet he wanted to help her even in a little, if his advice would be a feather-weight toward that end.

"Tell me!" exclaimed Lorraine again.

He made a quick resolution—it could do no harm—it would still be for her to determine:

"I should by all means take her back—if she will have you," he answered.

"If she will have me!" Lorraine interrogated in surprise. "You think there is any doubt about it?"

"Candidly I do—very material doubt, indeed."

"You say that with knowledge—you have talked with her!" Lorraine cried, instantly suspicious.

"I saw Mrs. Lorraine but a few minutes at the Club-house, yesterday. Is it likely she would discuss you there?" Pendleton replied. "It was not until she was leaving, remember, that she encountered you and your—rebuff."

It was an unfortunate speech. Pendleton realized it as the last word was said.

It brought to Lorraine's mind the scene of yesterday, and his decision—made before them all. He had refused to recognize her then—should he reverse himself within twenty-four hours—make himself the laughing stock of every one—prove himself a mere will-o-the-wisp? He had been about to dash after Stephanie and apologize—to ask her to come back—to forgive and forget the past. But now he was not so sure—he must take time to consider—must ponder the situation gravely—must——

He looked at Pendleton, indecision showing in his face and sounding in his voice as he replied:

"It is a serious matter—I must think over it, Pendleton, I must think over it. I will know what to do to-morrow—and to-morrow is time enough to decide a matter that has been in abeyance for two years."

Pendleton nodded.

"Very well," he replied. "I said it is a matter for you alone to decide; but if you will be advised you will decide it without taking counsel with anyone. Make up your own mind, Lorraine, and then stick to it."

"You're very right, and I'll do it," Lorraine answered; and with a wave of the hand he trotted away.

"I wonder," Pendleton mused, as he went slowly down the hill, "what it must mean not to know your own mind any better than Lorraine knows his—to be as changeable and as irresponsible—to keep debating and putting off a decision for two years—and then be no nearer it than you were at first."