“And are you going to live in London?” she asked Gladys, studying the girl’s face, the defiant sad eyes and peevish mouth, the fretful restlessness of the dainty figure. Pity was killing the last traces of her disappointment in her. Gladys returned her gaze curiously; she was thinking how becoming black was to Muriel. “Oh, yes!” she said; “I suppose we shall practically live here. I hate the country, you know, except for house-parties, and Jack’s estate is particularly dreary, I think. I hate ‘estates,’ they’re like appropriated pews, one always wants to sit somewhere else! Have you given up your club craze yet? Your uncle’s death must have made a lot of difference to you?” Muriel smiled. “If you mean am I horribly rich? I’ll admit it, but it will make the ‘club craze’ flourish more than ever, I expect. I have bought up three houses in Stepney and turned them into one for a settlement of workers. I am making arrangements now to enlarge the club, and in two or three weeks I shall go back to it.” There was a slight pause. Gladys played with some violets in a stand. “Are you quite happy?” said Muriel at last very gently. “I hope, dear, you are quite happy?” It appeared to Gladys absurd to suppose she could possibly mean it, yet the tone sounded sincere. “Happy?—of course we are! Why we have only been married a few months, and Jack has discovered I wear my own hair and keep my own complexion, and I am reassured as to the harmlessness of his habits and the extent of his income. What more can one ask?” “Those in themselves might add to your unhappiness if you were so already, but they could scarcely succeed in _making_ you happy, I am afraid,” said Muriel quietly. “Wouldn’t _you_ be happy with—Jack?” questioned Gladys. Sorrow, if it doesn’t increase tenderness, tends to brutality. Muriel met her eyes calmly. “No,” she said slowly, “I do not think I should be quite happy—with Jack.” She did not refer to their broken engagement. Gladys expected her to, and was touched. “It was horrid of me to say that,” she said, “if you still care for him, and rude of me if you don’t.” “I don’t think you either rude or horrid,” said Muriel quietly, “only not quite happy. I am very sorry for you, dear, because, though I don’t care for Jack as I did, he made me very miserable once.” Gladys pulled two violets to pieces on her lap. Muriel shivered; she hated wanton destruction of anything, and she loved flowers. “I have behaved very badly to you,” said Gladys at last in a low voice. “It was I that helped Edith le Mentier make trouble between you and Jack.” “You loved him so?” asked Muriel gently. Gladys burst into tears. “I don’t know why you should treat me like this,” she sobbed, “for I did my best to ruin your life, and I would again to get—Jack!” Muriel took her in her arms; all her old love and pity returned to her. “It would make no difference to me if you did,” said Muriel; “I should only be sorry for you. Tell me what’s the matter?”