MURIEL woke up to a new poverty and an extra ten thousand a year. The latter scarcely passed through her mind, but the former made her terribly lonely. Now there seemed nothing left, and the world a vast cold place void of personality. She repeated three times over during a hurried, lonely breakfast that she had her work, and the post brought her two letters, one with Cynthia’s Paris address, the other in a handwriting that drew all the blood to her heart. She put it aside and read Cynthia’s. It told of her work and of Launcelot. The tone was softer than usual. Muriel was scarcely surprised when she read “Launcelot says his prayers every evening, and always goes to church on Sundays. So I do, too. His soul wants nourishment as well as his body, and I promised to take care of him. The other night Geoff took him to bed, and when I went up to look at them they were kneeling side by side looking out of the window. Launcelot has an idea that the Holy Grail is in one of the stars, and he is always looking for it. You have found it, Muriel, dear, and I am beginning to believe that some day I may find it too.” She did not mention Leslie Damores; evidently he had not discovered her yet. Muriel hesitated to send him Cynthia’s address; she believed it better for them both to wait. Finally she took up the second letter. “Will you forgive me for writing to you? Gladys and I are married. We have left India for good, which means my profession dropped, you understand; but Gladys says there is no one to dress for in India. You’ll think it awful cheek on my part, but she’s very young yet, and you used to have a tremendous influence over her. I suppose you couldn’t drop in now and then and give her a hint or two? I should like to see you awfully.—JACK.” Muriel carefully put the letter on a table, and sat with her hands on her lap gazing steadfastly into the fire. She saw three things, and she saw them plainly. One was that Jack did not love his wife, another that she, Muriel, had hardly forgiven Gladys, and thirdly that Jack would like to see her awfully. There was a dim, shadowy fourth, but this she brushed angrily away; it hinted that there was more sunlight in the room than before she had read the letter. Finally she drifted into a compromise it would do no harm to see Gladys. She wrote telling her of her loss and inviting her to tea the following week. She was very nervous when the afternoon came, and paced restlessly up and down the long reception room in her heavy black dress vexed with her expectancy, listening to the noises in the street. The sharp jingle of a hansom passing, hesitating, stopping, brought her to a chair. Then came the sound of an electric bell, and a minute later the door swung open and a footman announced “Captain Hurstly, miss.”