“I know it, my dear.  He’s been waiting for an hour.  I think it is good for him to wait,” said the other, with airy confidence.  “What does Roxy say in his letter this morning?”

“He says it will all be over in a day or two.  Dear me, how I wish it were over now!  I can’t endure Cousin Mary’s snippishness much longer, and as for Katherine!  My dear, I hate that girl!”

“She’s been very nice lately, Edith—­ever since Freddie dropped me so completely.  By the way, Burton was telling me to-day that Odell-Carney had been asking her some very curious and staggering questions about Tootles and your most private affairs.”

“I know, my dear,” groaned Edith.  “He very politely remarked to me last night that Tootles made him think very strangely of a friend of his in London.  He wouldn’t mention the fellow’s name.  He only smiled and said, ‘Nevah mind, my dear, he’s a c’nfended handsome dog.’  I daresay he meant that as a compliment for Tootles.  She is pretty, don’t you think so, dear?”

“She’s just like you, Edith,” said Constance, who understood things quite clearly.

“Then, in heaven’s name, Connie, why are they staring at her so impolitely—­all of them?”

“It’s because she is so pretty.  Goodness, Edith, don’t let every little thing worry you.  You’ll have wrinkles and grey hairs soon enough.”

“It’s all very nice for you to talk,” grumbled Edith.  “I’m going mad with loneliness.  You have a lover near you all the time—­he’s mad about you.  What have I?  I’m utterly alone.  No one loves me—­no, not a soul—­”

“You won’t let them love you, Edith,” said Constance jauntily.  “They all want to love you—­all of them.”

“I hate men,” announced Mrs. Medcroft, retrospectively.

Developments of a most refractory character swooped down upon them at the very end of the sojourn in Innsbruck.  Every one had begun to rejoice in the fact that the fortnight was almost over, and that they could go their different ways without having anything really regrettable to carry away with them.  The Rodneys were going to Paris, the Medcrofts to London, the Odell-Carneys (after finding out where the others were bent) to Ostend.  Freddie Ulstervelt suddenly announced his determination to remain at the Tirol for a week or two longer.  That very day he had been introduced to a Mademoiselle Le Brun, a fascinating young Parisian, stopping at the Tirol with her mother.

All might have ended well had it not been for the unfortunate circumstance of Odell-Carney’s making a purchase of the London Standard instead of the Times, as was his custom.  His lamentations over this piece of stupidity were cut short by the discovery of an astonishing article upon the editorial page of the paper—­an article which created within him a sense of grave perplexity.  He read the headlines thrice and glanced through the text twice, neither time with any very definite idea of what he was reading.  His fingers shook as he held the sheet nearer the window for a final effort to untangle the incredible thing that lay before him in simple, unimpeachable black and white.