That a deep and sympathetic understanding existed between herself and Colonel Menendez was unmistakable. More than once I intercepted glances from the dark eyes of Madame which were lover-like, yet laden with a profound sorrow. She was playing a rôle, and I was convinced that Harley knew this. It was not merely a courageous fight against affliction on the part of a woman of the world, versed in masking her real self from the prying eyes of society, it was a studied performance prompted by some deeper motive. She dressed with exquisite taste, and to see her seated there amid her cushions, gesticulating vivaciously, one would never have supposed that she was crippled. My admiration for her momentarily increased, the more so since I could see that she was sincerely fond of Val Beverley, whose every movement she followed with looks of almost motherly affection. This was all the more strange as Madame de Stämer whose age, I supposed, lay somewhere on the sunny side of forty, was of a type which expects, and wins, admiration, long after the average woman has ceased to be attractive. One endowed with such a temperament is as a rule unreasonably jealous of youth and good looks in another. I could not determine if Madame’s attitude were to be ascribed to complacent self-satisfaction or to a nobler motive. It sufficed for me that she took an unfeigned joy in the youthful sweetness of her companion. “Val, dear,” she said, presently, addressing the girl, “you should make those sleeves shorter, my dear.” She had a rapid way of speaking, and possessed a slightly husky but fascinatingly vibrant voice. “Your arms are very pretty. You should not hide them.” Val Beverley blushed, and laughed to conceal her embarrassment. “Oh, my dear,” exclaimed Madame, “why be ashamed of arms? All women have arms, but some do well to hide them.” “Quite right, Marie,” agreed the Colonel, his thin voice affording an odd contrast to the deeper tones of his cousin. “But it is the scraggy ones who seem to delight in displaying their angles.” “The English, yes,” Madame admitted, “but the French, no. They are too clever, Juan.” “Frenchwomen think too much about their looks,” said Val Beverley, quietly. “Oh, you know they do, Madame. They would rather die than be without admiration.” Madame shrugged her shoulders. “So would I, my dear,” she confessed, “although I cannot walk. Without admiration there is”--she snapped her fingers--“nothing. And who would notice a linnet when a bird of paradise was about, however sweet her voice? Tell me that, my dear?” Paul Harley aroused himself and laughed heartily. “Yet,” he said, “I think with Miss Beverley, that this love of elegance does not always make for happiness. Surely it is the cause of half the domestic tragedies in France?” “Ah, the French love elegance,” cried Madame, shrugging, “they cannot help it. To secure what is elegant a Frenchwoman will sometimes forget her husband, yes, but never forget herself.”