“Then it must have been very recent. Recent things always feel like that,” said Edith. She sank down before the fire and began to warm her hands; the rings on them gleamed and glittered with an almost malicious sparkling. “It is very brave of you to marry Jack,” she murmured, smiling—“very brave. I hardly think I should have had the pluck to if I were single again.” Muriel looked in front of her. She was counting the minutes; every one seemed a slow, aching century separating her from the man who might be dying. It was a refined mode of torture to have to talk of him. She began to understand the feeling of a caged wild beast. As an expression it is trite, but as an emotion it possessed her as original. “You are not very consistent, are you?” suggested Mrs. le Mentier with a little hard laugh. “We none of us are, I suppose; only it’s rather disappointing to us wicked ones when one of the saints back down. Being so deficient ourselves we expect so much more of them. It’s the shock that one feels when a really good cook fails in his favorite dish.” “I’m afraid I’m not consistent, and I’m sure I’m not one of the saints,” said Muriel with a little strained smile. “What do you mean, Mrs. le Mentier?” “Once on a time,” replied her companion critically, regarding her dainty hands, “there was a girl who wouldn’t marry a man—there’s nothing so very astonishing about that, you’ll say; it’s happened before and it may happen again. But she wouldn’t marry him because she found out that his record showed a stumble or two. One may consider her a little fastidious, but one respects her. The man behaved very nicely; he respected her too. But then there came another man, and human nature made her forget all about his record, which, when you come to think of it, is very natural, and not at all to be blamed. It is a pity to be too fastidious, but one can’t perhaps respect her as much.” “Mrs. le Mentier,” said Muriel, rising to her feet, “will you kindly tell me what you mean?” Mrs. le Mentier slowly began to draw on her gloves—they fitted her to perfection—but she remained seated. “You might ask Jack when you see him—if he is well enough to be bothered with such unimportant things—if he remembers four years ago this last July. You might ask him if he would like you to see his correspondence at that time. You might laugh with him, when he is convalescent, over these letters. I have them in this little bag here, which when I heard of your engagement seemed better in your hands than mine. You might,” said Edith, holding out her hand to Muriel, and smiling her sweetest smile, “tell Captain Hurstly that his old friends have not forgotten him. Good-bye, my dear Muriel; _bon voyage_—my best respects to your uncle—don’t trouble to come downstairs—do you know the last good remedy for _mal-de-mer_?—you never suffer from it? That’s right; a speedy return, my dear, and mind you don’t forget my little messages to Jack when you see him—good-bye!”