With an effort she pressed the hand that was squeezing hers. “What, Arnold, in the letter-card? But I think it was just too weird of him not to have shown it to you—too extraordinary.” Jane felt that she was becoming dazed. “What did he say?” “I know it all by heart. I could say it in my sleep. He said, ‘Just off; we sail together. We were married this morning, and I’m the happiest man in the world. Don’t tell any one at present. If you love me, not a word to a soul. Will write from Bolivia.—Arnold. P. S.—On no account tell Aunt Ethel.’ So you see why I nearly died when she said Miss Renata Molloy, for of course I thought you were in Bolivia with Arnold, and oh, Renata, where is he and what has happened? Tell me everything?” She flung her arms about Jane’s neck as she spoke and gave her a long, clinging kiss. Jane endured it under pressure of that, “You are not a bit like yourself.” When she had borne it for as long as she could, she drew back. “Listen,” she said. “Tell me—tell me the worst—tell me everything. Where is Arnold?” “Arnold is in Bolivia,” said Jane. “And why aren’t you with him?” Jane produced a pocket-handkerchief. It was a very little one, but it sufficed. In her own mind Jane described it as local colour. “We have parted,” she said, and dabbed her eyes. “Renata! But you’re married to him!” “No,” said Jane, quite truthfully. An inward thankfulness that she was not married to Arnold supported her. Daphne stared at her with bulging eyes. “You’re not! But he said, ‘We were married this morning.’ I read it with my own eyes, and I could repeat it in my sleep. I know it by heart....” Jane checked her with a look that held so much mysterious meaning that the flood of words was actually stemmed. “He didn’t marry _me_,” said Jane, in a tense whisper. She looked straight into the boiled gooseberry eyes, and then covered her own. “He didn’t marry you?” repeated Daphne, gasping. “No,” said Jane, from behind the handkerchief. “But he’s married?” “Y—yes,” said Jane. “Oh, Renata!” Miss Todhunter cast herself upon Jane’s neck and burst into tears. The impact was considerable and her weight no light one. “Daphne, please—please—Lady Heritage is looking at us. Do sit up. I can’t tell you anything if you cry. There’s really nothing to cry about.” Daphne sat up again. She also produced a handkerchief, a very large one with “Daphne” embroidered across the corner in coral pink. A terrific blast of white rose emerged with the handkerchief. “But he was so much in love with you,” she wailed. “I don’t understand it. How _could_ he marry any one else and break your heart!” “My heart is not broken,” said Jane. “Then it was your fault, and you’ve broken his, and he’s got married just to show he doesn’t care, like people do in books. I don’t believe you love him a bit.” Jane looked modestly at the carpet, which was of a lively shade of crimson. “I’m afraid I don’t,” she said, in a very small voice.