“Why do you say this?”

“Because I am weak, and therefore envious.  Why should you reject my sympathy?  I could be a better friend to you than any you have.  I myself have no friend; I can’t make myself liked.  I feel dreadfully alone, without a soul who cares for me.  I am my husband’s plaything, and of course he scorns me.  I am sure he laughs at me with his friends and mistresses.  And you too scorn me, though I have tried to make you my friend.  Of course it is all at an end between us now.  I understand your nature; it isn’t quite what I thought.”

Cecily beard, but scarcely with understanding.  The word for which she was waiting did not come.

“Why,” she asked, “do you speak of offering me sympathy?  What do you hint at?”

“Seriously, you don’t know?”

“I don’t,” was the cold answer.

“Why did you go abroad without your husband?”

It came upon Cecily with a shock.  Were people discussing her, and thus interpreting her actions?

“Surely that is my own business, Mrs. Travis.  I was in poor health, and my husband was too busy to accompany me.”

“That is the simple truth, from your point of view?”

“How have you done me the honour to understand me?”

Mrs. Travis examined her; then put another question.

“Have you seen your husband since you arrived?”

“No, I have not.”

“And you don’t know that he is being talked about everywhere—­not exactly for his moral qualities?”

Cecily was mute.  Thereupon Mrs. Travis opened the little sealskin-bag that lay on her lap, and took out a newspaper.  She held it to Cecily, pointing to a certain report.  It was a long account of lively proceedings at a police-court.  Cecily read.  When she had come to the end, her eyes remained on the paper.  She did not move until Mrs. Travis put out a hand and touched hers; then she drew back, as in repugnance.

“You had heard nothing of this?”

Cecily did not reply.  Thereupon Mrs. Travis again opened her little bag, and took out a cabinet photograph.  It represented a young woman in tights, her arms folded, one foot across the other; the face was vulgarly piquant, and wore a smile which made eloquent declaration of its price.

“That is the ‘lady,’” said Mrs. Travis, with a slight emphasis on the last word.

Cecily looked for an instant only.  There was perfect silence for a minute or two after that; then Cecily rose.  She did not speak; but the other, also rising, said: 

“I shouldn’t have come if I had known you were still ignorant.  But now you can, and will, think the worst of me; from this day you will hate me.”

“I am not sure,” replied Cecily, “that you haven’t some strange pleasure in what you have been telling me; but I know you are very unhappy, and that alone would prevent me from hating you.  I can’t be your friend, it is true; we are too unlike in our tempers and habits of thought Let us shake hands and say good-bye.”