"I am afraid," he said briefly, "that my presence must seem an intrusion. But I trust you will forgive me when you understand upon what errand I come." She disclaimed his apology by a wave of her hand. The emeralds upon it shot green fire at him. "The fact is," he went on, doggedly making for his point, "I have been asked to write a life of—your husband." He was interrupted by a commotion among the ice and bubbles of Miss Aspasia’s long tumbler. "Gracious," she sputtered; "but the Runkle is not dead yet!" She choked down, just in time, the comment: "Worse luck!" which had almost escaped her terribly frank tongue. Lady Gerardine was smiling again in her detached manner. "A great many people, distinguished people, Baby, have their lives written before they die. And they have then the advantage of correcting the proof-sheets. I dare say your uncle will not object." Major Bethune allowed a pause to fall before continuing his speech. Then he said, with almost cruel deliberation: "I beg your pardon, Lady Gerardine. I should have said your late husband. I refer to Harry English." *CHAPTER II* For the life of her Baby could not have said why, but she felt as if something had been broken by these last words—broken with a great crash. She put down her glass and turned and stared from her aunt to Major Bethune and back again. Lady Gerardine’s eyes were cast down, her hands were moving among the tea-things: it would have been hard to divine if she had even heard. The man was leaning forward, devouring her face with unsparing gaze—a gaze that seemed to be looking for something with brutal intensity. After a silence, so oppressive that Aspasia could have screamed, Lady Gerardine spoke: "Is it necessary to ask for my permission?" she said, without lifting her eyelids. "I did not know that people were so particular nowadays." She paused. And then, with a perceptible effort: "Did you know Captain English?" she asked. "Did I know him?" Raymond Bethune laughed out loud, unmirthfully. "You seem to have forgotten that he and I went through that siege together. I was with him from the day I first joined, practically till the hour of his death." Rosamond Gerardine gave a faint gasp, as if breath had suddenly failed her; then she looked up sharply and veiled her glance again. "Ah," she said slowly. "Through the siege—till—I had not known. I beg your pardon." Once more there was the heavy silence. With round eyes Baby stared: things were passing here to the meaning of which she had no clue, but she felt, as it were, the stress of a tragedy in the air. Suddenly Lady Gerardine rose. "I am glad to have met you," said she. He rose too, and she stretched out her hand to him. "Write his life," she went on. "I am sure no one could do it better."