Maria, when nearing thirty, was, in fact, as handsome as she had ever been.  Her self-control had kept lines from her face.  She was naturally healthy, and she, as well as Evelyn, had by nature a disposition to make the most of herself and a liking for adornment.  Aunt Maria often told Eunice that Maria was full as good-looking as Evelyn, if she was older, but that was not quite true.  Maria had never had Evelyn’s actual beauty, her perfection as of a perfect flower; still she was charming, and she had admirers, whom she always checked, although her aunt became more and more distressed that she did so.  Always at the bottom of Maria’s heart lay her secret.  It was not a guilty secret.  It was savored more of the absurd of tragedy than anything else.  Sometimes Maria herself fairly laughed at the idea that she was married.  All this time she wondered about Wollaston Lee.  She thought, with a sick terror, of the possibility of his falling in love, and wishing to marry, and trying to secure a divorce, and the horrible publicity, and what people would say and do.  She knew that a divorce would be necessary, although the marriage was not in reality a marriage at all.  She had made herself sufficiently acquainted with the law to be sure that a divorce would be absolutely necessary in order for either herself or Wollaston Lee to marry again.  For herself, she did not wish to marry, but she did wonder uneasily with regard to him.  She was not in the least jealous; all her old, childish fancy for him had been killed by that strenuous marriage ceremony, but she dreaded the newspapers and the notoriety which would inevitably follow any attempt on either side to obtain a divorce.  She dreamed about it often, and woke in terror, having still before her eyes the great, black letters on the first pages of city papers.  She had never seen Wollaston Lee since she had lived in Amity.  She had never even heard anything about him except once, when somebody had mentioned his name and spoken of seeing him at a reception, and that he was a professor in one of the minor colleges.  She did not wish ever to repeat that experience.  Her heart had seemed to stand still, and she had grown so white that a lady beside her asked her hurriedly if she were faint.  Maria had thrown off the faintness by a sheer effort of will, and the color had returned to her face, and she had laughingly replied with a denial.  Sometimes she thought uneasily of Gladys Mann.  The clergyman who, in his excess of youthful zeal, had performed the ceremony was dead.  She had seen his obituary notice in a New York paper with a horrible relief.  He had died quite suddenly in one of the pneumonia winters.  But Gladys Mann and her possession of the secret troubled her.  Gladys Mann, as she remembered her, had been such a slight, almost abortive character.  She asked herself if she could keep such a secret, if she would have sense enough to do so.  Gladys had married, too, a man of her own sort, who worked fitfully, and