Muriel stood quite still smiling. She felt as if she were having a photograph taken; she must not move; she must try to look pleasant—that’s what they call it. She was still so long that Gladys looked up in wonder. The elder girl drew her into her arms. “It will be sure to come out well,” she murmured. Then aloud: “Little darling, you have always had the key—mine was only a skeleton one, and, Gladys, I never could have used it.” The girl clung to her shivering with joy. “Then, after all, you do care for him a little?” Muriel said tenderly. Gladys lifted up her eyes. They seemed much older—they were so happy and so sure. “I told you there was only the one way—the one way in all God’s earth for me. I think I should have thrown myself out of the window if you hadn’t given me the key!” “Oh, don’t!” cried Muriel half sobbing. Gladys smiled. “Dearest, you don’t understand—you see you don’t care for him as I do!” she said. “No,” repeated Muriel very slowly and carefully, “I don’t quite understand—you see I don’t—don’t care for him. Do you know, little dear, it’s getting rather chilly. Hadn’t we better go in and dress for dinner?” “Oh, to think of dinner!” laughed Gladys. “How we do mix things, don’t we? It’s too terribly material.” But of the two she had the better appetite. Muriel had never lied before, and she found it very tiring. CHAPTER VIII “A self-sacrifice that is thorough must never pause.” “Sunday,” said Edith le Mentier, lazily swaying her parasol, “does my religion for me. When I hear the sweet church bells chiming over the cow-laden fields I say to myself this is a Christian country. Cows and a church—certainly I, too, must be a Christian.” “And your responsibility ends there?” asked Gladys, who with others of the party was dressed to go to the little church across the fields. “My responsibility, my dear, er—Miss Gladys—as you so deliciously call it, is never at work in that sphere. No! I recognize it at my dressmaker’s; I am crushed under it in shops; I frequently come face to face with it in the choice of a cook. Beyond this,” Mrs. le Mentier put out a dainty foot under a frilled petticoat, “beyond this I am a rational being—that is, whenever it is possible I persuade some one else to do my effort-making for me. Captain Hurstly, I want a footstool; dear, delightful creatures, do go and do my praying for me; Sir Arthur,” here she put her head graciously towards their slightly embarrassed host, “is going to stay to keep me company.”