“Oh, it is not you who are frightened,” she cried. “You are the man. But I--ah, I am only the woman.” He stared. “What an odd way to put it, dear.” Then he drew back, struck by the curious gleam of mockery in her eyes. “Was it like this twenty-five years ago?” she asked. “Yvonne!” “Did you love her--like this?” He managed to smile. “Are you jealous?” “Tell me about her.” His face hardened. “Some other time, not now.” “But you loved her, didn't you?” “Don't be silly, dear.” “And she loved you. If you loved her as you love me, she could not have helped----” “Please, please, Yvonne!” he exclaimed, a dull red setting in his cheek. “You have never told me her name----” He faced her, his eyes as cold as steel. “I may as well tell you now, Yvonne, that her name is never mentioned in this house.” She seemed to shrink down farther in the chair. “Why?” she asked, an insistent note in her voice. “It isn't necessary to explain.” He walked away from her to the window and stood looking out over the bleak little courtyard. Neither spoke for many minutes, and yet he knew that her questioning gaze was upon him and that when he turned to her again she would ask still another question. He tried to think of something to say that would turn her away from this hated subject. “Isn't it time for you to dress, dearest? The Gunnings live pretty far up north and the going will be bad with Fifth Avenue piled up with snow----” “Doesn't Frederic ever mention his mother's name?” came the question that he feared before it was uttered. “I am not certain that he knows her name,” said he levelly. The knuckles of his hands, clenched tightly behind his back, were white. “He has never heard me utter it.” She looked at him darkly. There was something in her eyes that caused him to shift his own steady gaze uncomfortably. He could not have explained what it was, but it gave him a curiously uneasy feeling, as of impending peril. It was not unlike the queer, inexplicable, though definite, sensing of danger that more than once he had experienced in the silent, tranquil depths of great forests. “But you loved her just the same, James, up to the time you met me. Is not that true?” “No!” he exclaimed loudly. “It is not true.” “I wonder what could have happened to make you so bitter toward her,” she went on, still watching him through half-closed eyes. “Was she unfaithful to you? Was----” “Good God, Yvonne!” he cried, an angry light jumping into his eyes--the eyes that so recently had been ablaze with love. “Don't be angry, dearest,” she cried plaintively. “We Europeans speak of such things as if they were mere incidents. I forget that you Americans take them seriously, as tragedies.” He controlled himself with an effort. The pallor in his face would have alarmed anyone but her. “We must never speak of--of that again, Yvonne,” he said, a queer note of hoarseness in his voice. “Never, do you understand?” He was very much shaken.