of the law of her own nature.  Then she thought of Angela in her closed chamber.  Had she been shielded?  Was she also set apart?  But the thought did not disturb her, for she herself seemed of a larger growth, of a braver spirit, than Angela or than her aunts or than Uncle Percival, who had missed life also.  They had been defeated, but was it not because they had lacked in themselves the courage to attain?

The next morning, after she had had her tea and toast in her room, she went, as was her custom, into Angela’s chamber.  Early as it was, Mrs. Payne had already apparelled herself in her paint and powder and driven down.  Seen by the morning sunlight, her smeared face with its brilliant artificial smile revealed a pathos which was rendered more acute by its effect of playful grotesqueness.  She was like a faded and decrepit actress who, fired by the unconquerable spirit of her art, forces her wrinkled visage to ape the romantic ecstasies of passion.  Age which is beautiful only when it has become expressive of repose—­of serene renouncement—­showed to Laura’s eyes only as a ghastly and comic travesty of youth.

Angela was having her breakfast at a little table by the window, and at Laura’s entrance she turned to her with a sigh of evident relief.

“Rosa has come down to speak to you particularly,” she explained.  “There is something she has very heavily on her mind.”

Mrs. Payne had wheeled herself about at the same instant; and Laura, after regarding her uncertainly for a moment, impressed a light caress upon her outstretched jewelled fingers.

“I didn’t sleep a wink, my dear,” began the old lady in her most conciliatory tones, “not a blessed wink after Horace told me.”

The questioning stare in Laura’s face had the effect of jerking her up so hurriedly that the words seemed to trip and stumble upon her lips.

“I might have had it from yourself, of course,” she added with an aggrieved contortion of her features, “but as I was just telling Angela, I would not for worlds intrude upon your confidence.”

“But what has he told you?” asked Laura, curiously, “and what, after all, did I tell Uncle Horace?”

Mrs. Payne settled herself comfortably back in her chair, and, picking up a bit of Angela’s toast from the tray, nibbled abstractedly at the crust.

“What under heaven would he have told me but the one thing?” she demanded.  “Mr. Wilberforce has at last proposed.”

“At last!” echoed Laura, breaking into a laugh of unaffected merriment.  “Well, he was long about it!”

At the words Angela leaned toward her, stretching out her frail hands in a pleading gesture.

“Don’t marry, Laura,” she entreated; “don’t—­don’t marry.  There is only misery from men—­misery and regret.”

“I believe he has millions,” remarked Mrs. Payne, in the tone in which she might have recited her creed in church, “and as far as a husband goes I have never observed that there was any disadvantage to be found in age.  My experience of the world has taught me that decrepitude is the only thing which permanently domesticates a man.”