Carmen’s face crimsoned; then her colour died away and left her sickly white, all but the little pink spots of rouge she had put on in the morning.

“Motoring with Mrs. May!” she repeated, harshly, then controlled her voice by a violent effort.  “Was Mrs. May expected here?”

“Was expected,” Theo echoed with emphasis.  She was enjoying herself thoroughly; literally enjoying “herself.”  This was almost as good as if Hilliard had not refused the invitation and Angela had not basely slipped out of the engagement after practically accepting.  “She won’t come.  I suppose she thinks she’s having more fun where she is.  Though if Mr. Hilliard had come I haven’t the ghost of a doubt that she would.  Do you know Mr. Hilliard well?”

This in a tone as innocent as that of a little child talking of its dolls.

“Pretty well,” answered Carmen, moistening her lips.  “Who is Mrs. May?  I heard of her once.  She’s a friend of the Morehouses.”

“She’s a new importation,” replied Theo lightly.  “So far as I can make out, she and Mr. Hilliard met in New York.”

“Is she—­pretty?”

“Yes, very.  Fair hair and gray eyes that look dark.  Mourning is becoming to her.”

“Is she a widow?”

“She—­gives that impression,” Miss Dene smiled.  This Carmen Gaylor was like a beautiful, fiery thundercloud.  Teasing her was delightful.  Theo felt as if she were in a play.  It was a dreadful waste of good material not to have an audience.  But she would “use the scene” afterward.  She remembered hearing a great actress tell how she visited hospitals for consumptives, and even ran up to Davos one winter, when she was preparing to play La Dame aux Camelias.  Theo would have done all that if she had been an actress.  She was fond of realism in every form, and did not stick at gruesomeness.

“A grass widow?” exclaimed Carmen eagerly.

Theo shrugged her shoulders.  “Really, I can’t tell you.”

Carmen supposed that she knew little of Mrs. May, and had met her for the first time at Santa Barbara with Nick.  With Nick—­motoring!  The thought gave Carmen a strange sensation, as if her blood had turned to little cold, sharp crystals freezing in her veins.

“Not very young, I suppose?” she hazarded, her lips so dry that she had to touch them with her tongue.  But that was dry, too.

“Oh, about twenty-three or four, and looks nineteen.”

There was no hope, then!  Nick was with a woman, beautiful, young, presumably a widow, and evidently in love with him, as Miss Dene said that she would be here at Rushing River Camp if Nick had come.  A deadly sickness caught Carmen by the throat.  Her love for Nick was one with her life, and had been for years.  Always she had believed that some day she would be happy with Nick, would have him for her own.  Anything else would be impossible—­too bad to be true.  Even when he went East without asking her to marry him, though she was free, she had assured herself that he loved her.  Had he not as much as said that the anniversary of her husband’s death was not a lucky night to choose for love-making?  Carmen had made certain that she was the only woman in Nick’s life; and he had laughed when she hinted that “some lovely lady” might persuade him to stay in New York.