"Don't be foolish, dear," she said. "You know I won't stay a minute longer than you. I wouldn't think of going alone. We could leave here after lunch Thursday and stay in Oxford for dinner and catch our boat all right. You see, dearest, it's sort of like dying never to see people who meant so much once. You don't know how much I grieve about Mabel. She was my first friend--the first real friend I ever had. It was my fault that we quarrelled. I wouldn't like to feel that it was my fault if I lost all touch with Walter and Mrs. Karner--I mean Mrs. Longman. They've asked us to come in a friendly spirit. I think we ought to go." "Very well," he said. "Wire that we'll come. But it sounded to me like a sort of duty note--not exactly cordial." As a matter of fact it had not been in an entirely cordial spirit that Beatrice had written. One morning Walter, who very rarely disturbed his wife when she was writing, knocked at the door of her work-room. "May I interrupt a minute," he asked apologetically. "What is it?" she asked. He came over and laid a newspaper on her table, pointing halfway down a column which was headed, "International Socialist Congress." Among the names of the delegates from the United States were those of Isadore and Yetta Braun. "You'd like to have me invite them out here?" she asked. "Yes, if it isn't inconvenient. I'd like to see them again." For the next few days Beatrice's work went wrong. More often than not she found herself looking up from her paper, staring out through the window, across the lawn to the grape arbor. She would catch herself at it and turn again to her work. Finally she decided that she had best fight it out. So--forgetting to put the cap on her fountain-pen--she walked out into the garden. There was no possible doubt of it. She was afraid of Yetta--jealous! She tried to laugh at herself, but it hurt too much. Yetta was years younger than she. Isadore she had scarcely known, was not quite sure whether she had the name attached to the right vague memory, but she held an impression that he was an unattractive person. Yetta had probably married him in discouragement. Undoubtedly she still loved Walter. In these last four years Beatrice had been constantly discovering that he was more lovable than she had realized before. Yes; Yetta was probably still in love with him. Would she accept the invitation? A telegraph boy turned into their gate. She had not opened a despatch with such unsteady nervousness in a long time. "Arrive Oxford thursday afternoon four o'clock leave ten for Liverpool Yetta" Beatrice walked slowly back to the house and into Walter's study. It was as dissimilar from her very orderly work-room as well might be. There were three large tables, but each was too small for the litter of books and charts and drawings and closely written notes it carried. "They're coming to-morrow at four," she said, handing him the telegram. "Good."