Annette, being acute, as most women are, in affairs of the heart, knew, the very first time that Thorndyke casually mentioned Constance Maitland, that he was in love with her. When he said that he had known her long ago, at Lake Como, and proceeded to describe the beauty of those Italian days and nights, Annette Crane was convinced that it was in those sweet hours that Thorndyke had first loved Constance Maitland. Women have no conscience in probing the love-affairs of men, reckoning them the common property of the sex--and while Thorndyke was blithely unconscious that he had revealed anything, Annette was in full possession of all the essential facts. Also, Thorndyke let out that Crane knew Constance Maitland. Crane had never mentioned Constance’s name to his wife. That, was in itself enough to give Annette a painful interest in this woman who, as Thorndyke said, could charm the birds off the bushes. When the train came bumping into Washington on a pleasant May afternoon, Crane was waiting at the station. He seemed delighted to meet his family again, and indeed, on seeing them, a kind of tenderness came over him. He kissed his children affectionately, to which they submitted. Just behind them was a shabby, one-armed man, whom a girl of ten or twelve was hugging and kissing with little gurgles of delight. Crane wished that his children had met him like that. He thanked Thorndyke warmly for taking care of Annette, who said a few words of earnest thanks, and gave him a smile from her dewy lips and eyes that meant much more. The children bade him good-bye with outspoken regret, and would not be comforted until Thorndyke promised to take them to the Zoo the next Sunday to see the baby elephant. As the party came out of the station together, a handsome little victoria whirled by. In it sat Constance Maitland, her delicate mauve draperies enveloping her, a black lace parasol shading her head, and a filmy white veil over her face. By her side sat a little, withered old lady in rusty black--one of the flotsam and jetsam of weary old people who drift to Washington to die. It was one of Constance Maitland’s pet charities to take these weary old people to drive, and in so doing to wear her loveliest gowns, her most exquisite hats--a delicate compliment unfailingly appreciated.