Her smile answered him first.  Then she said:  “Pardon me, Mr. Selden, but we have been in masquerade all summer, and now we must unmask before real life begins.  My name is not Clementine Marat, but Fanny Clare. Cousin John, I hope you are not disappointed.”  Then she put her hand into John’s, and they wandered off into the conservatory to finish their explanation.

Mr. Cleve Sullivan found himself at that moment in the most trying circumstance of his life.  The real Clementine Marat stood looking down at a flower on the carpet, and evidently expecting him to resume the tender attitude he had been accustomed to bear toward her.  He was a man of quick decisions where his own interests were concerned, and it did not take him half a minute to review his position and determine what to do.  This plain blonde girl without fortune was not the girl he could marry; she had deceived him, too—­he had a sudden and severe spasm of morality; his confidence was broken; he thought it was very poor sport to play with a man’s most sacred feelings; he had been deeply disappointed and grieved, etc., etc.

Clementine stood perfectly still, with her eyes fixed on the carpet and her cheeks gradually flushing, as Cleve made his awkward accusations.  She gave him no help and she made no defence, and it soon becomes embarrassing for a man to stand in the middle of a large drawing-room and talk to himself about any girl.  Cleve felt it so.

“Have you done, sir?” at length she asked, lifting to his face a pair of blue eyes, scintillating with scorn and anger.  “I promised you my final answer to your suit when we met in New York.  You have spared me that trouble.  Good evening, sir.”

Clementine showed to no one her disappointment, and she probably soon recovered from it.  Her life was full of many other pleasant plans and hopes, and she could well afford to let a selfish lover pass out of it.  She remained with her friend until after the marriage between her and John Selden had been consummated; and then Cleve saw her name among the list of passengers sailing on one particular day for Europe.  As John and his bride left on the same steamer Cleve supposed, of course, she had gone in their company.

“Nice thing it would have been for Cleve Sullivan to marry John Selden’s wife’s maid, or something or other?  John always was a lucky fellow.  Some fellows are always unlucky in love affairs—­I always am.”

Half a year afterward he reiterated this statement with a great deal of unnecessary emphasis.  He was just buttoning his gloves preparatory to starting for his afternoon drive, when an old acquaintance hailed him.

“Oh, it’s that fool Belmar,” he muttered; “I shall have to offer him a ride.  I thought he was in Paris.  Hello, Belmar, when did you get back?  Have a ride?”

“No, thank you.  I have promised my wife to ride with her this afternoon.”

“Your wife!  When were you married?”