One doubt--one frail straw of hope to which she might cling--yet remained. That tried, all was decided. Was this story true--completely and positively a fact? She had heard so much in society about baseless scandals--she had been told so many versions of the same story--as unlike as black to white or false to true--and she was not going to take this one bitter fact for granted upon the strength of any fashionable Medusa who might try to turn her warm beating heart to stone. Before she accepted Medusa's sentence she would discover for herself how far this story was true. "I will give no one any trouble," she thought: "I will act for myself, and judge for myself. It will be the making or marring of three lives." In her wide charity, in that power to think and feel for others, which was the highest gift of her rich sweet soul, Stella Mayne seemed to Christabel as important a factor in this life-problem as herself or Angus. She thought of her tenderly, picturing her as a modern Gretchen, tempted by an early and intense love, much more than by the devil's lure of splendour and jewels--a poor little Gretchen at seventeen and sixpence a week, living in a London garret, with no mother to watch and warn, and with wicked old Marthas in plenty to whisper bad advice. Christabel went down to breakfast as usual. Her quiet face and manner astonished Mrs. Tregonell, who had slept very little better than her niece; but when the servant came in to ask if she would ride she refused. "Do, dear," pleaded her aunt; "a nice long country ride by Finchley and Hendon would do you good." "No, Aunt Di--I would rather be at home this morning," answered Christabel; so the man departed, with an order for the carriage at the usual hour in the afternoon. There was a letter from Angus--Christabel only glanced at the opening lines, which told her that he was to stay at Hillside a few days longer, and then put the letter in her pocket. Jessie Bridgeman looked at her curiously--knowing very well that there was something sorely amiss--but waiting to be told what this sudden cloud of sorrow meant. Christabel went back to her own room directly after breakfast. Her aunt forbore any attempt at consolation, knowing it was best to let the girl bear her grief in her own way. "You will go with me for a drive after luncheon, dear?" she asked. "Yes, Auntie--but I would rather we went a little way in the country, if you don't mind, instead of to the Park." "With all my heart: I have had quite enough of the Park." "The 'booing, and booing, and booing,'" said Jessie, "and the straining one's every nerve to see the Princess drive by--only to discover the humiliating fact that she is one of the very few respectable-looking women in the Park--perhaps the only one who can look absolutely respectable without being a dowdy."