But we did not go “to-morrow,” Polly, and I have not been really hopeful of going until to-night. Agatha said quietly and impassively that, better or not, nothing would induce her to leave Bertie, that she would never sleep three yards away from him until he was quite well again. That left me without a chaperon, for although Mrs. Van Worden had written her a charming note too, she had not invited any one else at the lake, and I believe she knows several of them. Whether this omission rankled--she appears to be quite a personage--or whether they are all determined I shall marry Mr. Rogers, I don’t know, but I was invited to the Club House to luncheon next day and not less than four women attempted to dissuade me from going. The road was “frightful,” quite the worst in the Adirondacks. Life there was unbearably dull. They were worked out society women who took a sort of rest cure in the Adirondacks, eating and sleeping themselves into a condition of recuperating stupidity. There were “no men,” as the fishing was not good, and too many other drawbacks to mention. It was Mrs. Hammond who was commissioned with the final dissuasions. She walked home with me, and as we were crossing the pretty rustic bridge over the lake’s outlet, she put her hand in my arm, and said with a slight blush: “You must not mind what I am going to say to you, dear Lady Helen, I take such an interest in you. Who could help it?--you are so beautiful and a stranger here. And of course I am nearly ten years older than yourself and a married woman. I _don’t_ want you to go to those people; they are all rather fast. Mrs. Van Worden has had several stories in circulation about her that have come very close to being scandals----.” “What!” I cried, “am I really to meet an American woman who has committed adultery? How much at home I shall feel! So many of my friends have, you know.” “Lady Helen!” Never shall I forget that gasping shriek nor that poor scandalized little face. I almost relented. “If she will only admit it,” I pursued gloomily, “but they scarcely ever will. I do know one American woman who told me the second time I met her that she had a lover, but she had lived in England fifteen years and cut all her American acquaintances. I cannot understand your reticence.” “Lady Helen! Do you mean to insinuate that any of us----” “Oh, dear me, no. You are all shockingly virtuous here.” She stared at me for a moment longer, then curiosity got the better of her horror. She did not replace her hand within my arm, but she resumed her walk to my camp, evidently determined to understand me. “Let us have this out, Lady Helen, I implore you?” she said. “Do I understand that you countenance immorality?” “I accept the inevitable. It does not appeal to me personally, but if it does to other women and helps them to dissipate the ennui of life, that is none of my affair.”