“No. But I have seen her two or three times within the last few months--three times to be exact. Twice she has travelled in the same train as I was in, though not in the same compartment, and once I saw her dining here. Each time she was with that marvelously handsome young man. I really noticed her--don’t blame me--because of him.” “Perhaps he’s her son.” “He may be her husband.” “Oh--but the difference in their ages! She must be seventy at least, if not more.” “She may be very rich, too,” said Miss Briggs dryly. Lady Sellingworth remembered that it was always said that Miss Briggs’s enormous fortune had kept her a spinster. She was generally supposed to be one of those unfortunately cynical millionairesses who are unable to believe in man’s disinterested affection. “Shall we go?” said Lady Sellingworth. Miss Briggs assented, and they left the restaurant. They spent the afternoon together at a matinee at the Opera Comique, and afterwards Miss Briggs came to tea at Lady Sellingworth’s apartment. Not another word had been said about the two strangers, but Lady Sellingworth fully realized that Caroline Briggs had found her out. When her friend finally got up to go she asked Lady Sellingworth how long she intended to stay in Paris. “Oh, only a day or two,” Lady Sellingworth said. “I’ve got to see two or three dressmakers. Then I shall be off. I haven’t told anyone that I am here. It didn’t seem worth while.” “And you won’t be dull all alone?” “Oh, no, I am never dull. I love two or three days of complete rest now and then. One isn’t made of cast iron, although some people seem to think one is, or at ay rate ought to be.” There was a tired sound in her voice as she said this, and Miss Briggs’s small and sharp, but kind, eyes examined her face rather critically. But Miss Briggs only said: “Come and dine with me to-morrow night in my house. I shall be quite alone.” “Thank you, Caroline.” She spoke rather doubtfully and paused. But finally she said: “I will with pleasure. What time?” “Half-past eight.” When Miss Briggs had gone Lady Sellingworth gave way to an almost desperate fit of despondency. She felt ashamed of herself, like a sensitive person found out in some ugly fault. She sat down, and almost for the first time in her life mentally she wrestled with herself. Something, she did not quite know what, in Caroline Briggs’s look, or manner, or surmised mental attitude that day, had gone home to her. And that remark, “He may be her husband,” followed by, “she may be very rich, too,” had dropped upon her like a stone. It had never occurred to her that the old woman in the wig might be the young man’s wife. But she now realized that it was quite possible.