“Forgive me,” she pleaded, stretching out her hand to him. “I am foolish, but I did not dream that I was being cruel or unkind. Perhaps, dear, it is because I am--jealous.” “There is no one--nothing to be jealous of,” he said, passing a hand over his moist brow. Then he drew nearer and took her hand in his. It was as cold as ice. “Your hand is cold, darling,” he cried. “And yours, too,” she said, looking down at their clasped hands, a faint smile on her lips. Suddenly she withdrew her fingers from his strong grip. A slight shiver ran over her frame. “Ugh! I don't like cold hands!” He laughed rather desolately. “Suppose that I were to say the same to you?” “I am temperamental; you are not,” she replied coolly. “Sit down, dear. Let us be warm again.” “Shall I have the fire replenished----” “No,” she said with her slow smile, “you don't understand.” He lounged again on the arm of her chair. She leaned back and sighed contentedly, the smile on her red lips growing sweeter with each breath that she took. He felt his blood warming once more. For a long time they sat thus, looking into each other's eyes without speaking. He was trying to fathom the mystery that lurked at the bottom of those smiling wells; she, on the other hand, deluded herself with the idea that she was reading his innermost thought. “I have been considering the advisability of sending Frederic abroad for a year or two,” said he at last. She started. She had been far from right in her reading. “Now? This winter?” “Yes. He has never been abroad.” “Indeed? And he is half European, too. It seems--forgive me, James. Really, you know, I cannot always keep my thoughts from slipping out. You shouldn't expect it, dear.” “How did you know that his--his mother was a European?” he inquired abruptly. “Dear me! What manner of woman do you think I am? Without curiosity? I should be a freak. I have inquired of Mrs Desmond. There was no harm in that.” “What did she tell you? But no! It doesn't matter. We shan't discuss it. We----” “She told me little or nothing,” she broke in quickly. “You may rest quite easy, James.” “Upon my word, Yvonne, I don't understand----” “Let us speak of Frederic.” “I suppose it is only natural that you should inquire,” he said resignedly. “Of my servants,” she added pointedly. He flushed slightly. “I dare say I deserve the rebuke. It will not be necessary to pursue that line of inquiry, however. I shall tell you the story myself some day, Yvonne. Will you not bear with me?” She met the earnest appeal in his eyes with a slight frown of annoyance. “Who is to tell me the wife's side of the story?” The question was like a blow to him. He stared at her as if he had not heard aright. Before he could speak she went on coolly. “I dare say there are two sides to it, James. It's usually the case.” He winced. “There is but one side to this one,” he said, a harsh note in his voice.