“Yes, I do,” Zai blurts out, “a very great deal of foundation. I have been engaged to Lord Delaval ever since the State Ball, and I suppose I shall marry him some day.” “And you really accepted him in cold blood, although you have always said you disliked him so?” Zai reddens to the roots of her chesnut hair. “Women are allowed to change their minds, I suppose?” “You didn’t change your mind, Zai. You have only accepted Lord Delaval out of pique. It’s all because that dishonourable fellow, Conway, pitched you over for Crystal Meredyth. Oh! Zai! _cannot_ you arrange to be married the same day as I am? It would make me so much jollier to know I had a fellow-sufferer! It is quite a month to it--lots of time to gallop through the trousseau--and then people won’t say that you only married Lord Delaval when Carl had put a Mrs. Conway between you and him.” Zai looks up at her sister rather piteously; her grey eyes are dimmed with tears, her face is very pale, and there is a falter in her voice as she asks: “When is Mr. Conway’s wedding to be?” “Just six weeks hence.” A pause. The September sun shines down hot and glary, but under its broiling rays Zai shivers. Her heart is cold, her hands are cold, and it seems to her that life altogether is awfully cold. Still in this moment she makes up her mind. “All right, Trixy!” she cries, in ringing accents, just as if she was as blithe as the sunbeams and the birds; “the same day shall make us both--wives--on two conditions. One is that you will not tell Gabrielle a word about our little arrangements until I give you permission. The other condition is----” She pauses a second and turns away her face, and when she speaks again her voice is so husky that Trixy wonders--“that you will never mention Mr. Conway’s name to me again! Before I marry Lord Delaval, I should like to bury my dead past for ever and for ever out of sight.” “But Mamma must know of our arrangement, and she will tell Gabrielle, of course.”