Poor Claire!  She passes here from this story.  For years thereafter I used to catch a glimpse of her now and then, in the haunts of the birds of gorgeous plumage; but I never got a chance to speak to her, nor did she ever call on me again.  So I do not know if Douglas van Tuiver still continues her eight thousand a year.  All I can say is that when I saw her, her plumage was as gorgeous as ever, and its style duly certified to the world that it had not been held over from a previous season of prosperity.  Twice I thought she had been drinking too much; but then—­so had many of the other ladies with the little glasses of bright-coloured liquids before them.

8.  For the rest of that year I knew nothing about Sylvia except what I read in the “society” column of my newspaper—­that she was spending the late summer in her husband’s castle in Scotland.  I myself was suffering from the strain of what I had been through, and had to take a vacation.  I went West; and when I came back in the fall, to plunge again into my work, I read that the van Tuivers, in their yacht, the “Triton,” were in the Mediterranean, and were planning to spend the winter in Japan.

And then one day in January, like a bolt from the blue, came a cablegram from Sylvia, dated Cairo:  “Sailing for New York, Steamship ‘Atlantic,’ are you there, answer.”

Of course I answered.  And I consulted the sailing-lists, and waited, wild with impatience.  She sent me a wireless, two days out, and so I was at the pier when the great vessel docked.  Yes, there she was, waving her handkerchief to me; and there by her side stood her husband.

It was a long, cold ordeal, while the ship was warped in.  We could only gaze at each other across the distance, and stamp our feet and beat our hands.  There were other friends waiting for the van Tuivers, I saw, and so I held myself in the background, full of a thousand wild speculations.  How incredible that Sylvia, arriving with her husband, should have summoned me to meet her!

At last the gangway was let down, and the stream of passengers began to flow.  In time came the van Tuivers, and their friends gathered to welcome them.  I waited; and at last Sylvia came to me—­outwardly calm—­but with her emotions in the pressure of her two hands.  “Oh, Mary, Mary!” she murmured.  “I’m so glad to see you!  I’m so glad to see you!”

“What has happened?” I asked.

Her voice went to a whisper.  “I am leaving my husband.”

“Leaving your husband!” I stood, dumbfounded.

“Leaving him for ever, Mary.”

“But—­but——­” I could not finish the sentence.  My eyes moved to where he stood, calmly chatting with his friends.

“He insisted on coming back with me, to preserve appearances.  He is terrified of the gossip.  He is going all the way home, and then leave me.”

“Sylvia!  What does it mean?” I whispered.

“I can’t tell you here.  I want to come and see you.  Are you living at the same place?”