In the beginning I blamed van Tuiver; but in the end I concluded that for most of her troubles she had herself to thank—­or perhaps the ancestors who had begotten her.  She could talk more nobly and act more abjectly than any other woman I have ever known.  She wanted pleasant sensations, and she expected life to furnish them continuously.  Instinctively she studied the psychology of the person she was dealing with, and chose a reason which would impress that person.

At this time, you understand, I knew nothing about Sylvia Castleman or her fiancé, except what the public knew.  But now I got an inside view—­and what a view!  I had read some reference to Douglas van Tuiver’s Harvard career:  how he had met the peerless Southern beauty, and had given up college and pursued her to her home.  I had pictured the wooing in the rosy lights of romance, with all the glamour of worldly greatness.  But now, suddenly, what a glimpse into the soul of the princely lover!  “He had a good scare, let me tell you,” said Claire.  “He never knew what I was going to do from one minute to the next.”

“Did he see you in the crowd before the church door?” I inquired.

“No,” she replied, “but he thought of me, I can promise you.”

“He knew you were coming?”

She answered, “I told him I had got an admission card, just to make sure he’d keep me in mind!”

4.  I did not have to hear much more of Claire’s story before making up my mind that the wealthiest and most fashionable of New York’s young bachelors was a rather self-centred person.  He had fallen desperately in love with the peerless Southern beauty, and when she had refused to have anything to do with him, he had come back to the other woman for consolation, and had compelled her to pretend to sympathize with his agonies of soul.  And this when he knew that she loved him with the intensity of a jealous nature.

Claire had her own view of Sylvia Castleman, a view for which I naturally made due reservations.  Sylvia was a schemer, who had known from the first what she wanted, and had played her part with masterly skill.  As for Claire, she had striven to match her moves, plotting in the darkness against her, and fighting desperately with such weak weapons as she possessed.  It was characteristic that she did not blame herself for her failure; it was the baseness of van Tuiver, his inability to appreciate sincere devotion, his unworthiness of her love.  And this, just after she had been naively telling me of her efforts to poison his mind against Sylvia while pretending to admire her!  But I made allowances for Claire at this moment—­realizing that the situation had been one to overstrain any woman’s altruism.