Farr had no alternative but to reply to so direct a question, and Jean, although annoyed at the unwelcome interruption, waited patiently, confident that he would seize upon the first opportunity to resume his conversation with her. As the moments passed, however, and his undivided attention was still given to Miss Stuart, she was first hurt, and then bitterly angry. A lump rose in her throat, and for one miserable moment she thought she was going to cry; then her pride came to her rescue, and under an almost reckless gayety of speech and manner she hid her momentary weakness. It was unjust and unreasonable to blame Farr, but Jean was in no frame of mind for logical argument. He had turned away from her to speak to Miss Stuart, and although she had given him ample time to take up the broken thread of their discourse, he had failed to do so. As she talked on excitedly with Dudley, her cheeks burning, her eyes dark and restless, she was mentally comparing herself with Miss Stuart, whom she had already almost unconsciously begun to regard as her rival. She had always known that Helen's friend was beautiful, but to-night her newly awakened jealousy caused her to lay great stress on the brilliancy and fascination of their guest. She recalled, with curious distinctness, the image of herself which the mirror had shown her while she awaited Farr's coming, and her heart contracted as she thought how colorless she must appear in contrast with Miss Stuart's rich and vivid beauty. When at length Farr was once more at liberty to address her, she had worked herself up to such a pitch of miserable jealousy that she would have none of him, and took an almost savage delight in thwarting his every attempt at speech with her. He was too reserved to let her see how deeply he was wounded by her flippancy and incivility, and, in his apparent indifference, Jean found an added proof of his disloyalty and of her own unpardonable folly. She had almost come to the end of her courage, when Helen rose, giving the signal to the ladies to withdraw. Helen sat down before the open piano, and Nathalie picked up her mandolin from the music stand and began to tune it. When she had finished she spoke in a low tone to her sister: "Let's play Guy's old favorite, will you, dear?" Helen complied, but not before she had cast a half-guilty glance across the room to where Miss Stuart was gracefully reclining in a huge armchair, to satisfy herself that the mention of her lover's name had escaped her friend's notice. The piano took up the accompanying strains of a soft _andante_, the mandolin carrying the air with its tremulous and strangely human wail.