Mrs. Dykman, with an extremely uncomfortable sensation, took a chair. On the occasion of her first long conversation with Hermia she had made up her mind that her new-found relative would one day electrify the world by some act which her family would strive to forget. How she wished Hermia had been cast in that world’s conventional mold! It had come! She was convinced of that, as she looked at Hermia’s face. What _had_ she done? “I have something to tell you,” said Hermia; and then she stopped. “Well?” Mrs. Dykman uttered only one word; but before that calm, impassive expectancy there was no retreat. She looked as immovable, yet as compelling, as a sphinx. Hermia told her story to the end. At so low an ebb was her vitality that not a throb of excitement was in her voice. When she had finished, Mrs. Dykman drew a breath of relief. It was all very terrible, of course, but she had felt an indefinable dread of something worse. She knew with whom she had to deal, however, and decided upon her line of argument without the loss of a moment. For Hermia to allow any barrier to stand between herself and Quintard was ridiculous. “It is a very unfortunate thing,” she said, in a tone intended to impress Hermia with its lack of horror; “but has it occurred to you that it could not be helped?” “What do you mean?” “Do you remember that for more years than you can count you nursed and trained and hugged the idea of an adventurous love-affair? The moment you got the necessary conditions you thought of nothing but of realizing your dream. To have changed your ideas would have involved the changing of your whole nature. The act was as inevitable as any minor act in life which is the direct result of the act which preceded it. You could no more have helped having an intrigue than you could help having typhoid fever if your system were in the necessary condition. I think that is a logical statement of the matter.” “I do not deny it,” said Hermia indifferently; “but why was I so blind as to mistake the wrong man for the right?” “The men of your imagination were so far above reality that all men you met were a disappointment. Cryder was the first who had any of the qualities you demanded. And there was much about Cryder to please; he was one of the most charming men I ever met. You found it delightful to be with a man who, you thought, understood you, and whose mind was equal to your own. You were lonely, too—you wanted a companion. If Quintard had come first, there would have been no question of mistake; but, as the case stands, it was perfectly natural for you to imagine yourself in love with Cryder.” Hermia turned her head listlessly against the back of the chair and stared at the wall. It was all true; but what difference did it make?