"What!" cried the Countess Helene, in protest, "and the story unfinished! Why, it might develop into a romance. I dote on romances in real life or fiction, but I like them all spelled out for me to the very end." "Instead of a romance, I should fancy the girl's life very prosaic wherever it is lived," returned the Marquise. "But before her year at the convent had quite expired she made her escape--took no one into her confidence; and when her guardian, or his agent, came to claim her, there were storms, apologies, but no ward." "And you do not call that a romance?" said the Countess. "I do; it offers all sorts of possibilities." "Yes, the possibility of this;" and Mrs. McVeigh pointed to the picture before them. The Marquise halted, looked curiously at the speaker, then regarded the oriental face on the canvas thoughtfully, and passed her hand over her brow with a certain abstraction. "I never thought of that," she said slowly. "You poor creature!" and she took a step nearer the picture. "I--never--thought of that! Maman, Madame McVeigh has just taught me something--to be careful, careful how we judge the unfortunate. They say this Kora is a light woman in morals; but suppose--suppose somewhere the life that girl told of in the convent really does exist, and suppose this pretty Kora had been one of the victims chosen! Should we dare then to judge her by our standards, Maman? I think not." Without awaiting an opinion she walked slowly into the alcove, and left the three ladies gazing at each other with a trifle of constraint mingled with their surprise. "Another sacred cause to fight for," sighed the dowager, with a quaint grimace. "Last week it was the Jews, who seem to me quite able to take care of themselves! Next week it may be Hindoo widows; but just now it is Kora!" "She should have been born a boy in the age when it was thought a virtue to don armor and do battle for the weak or incapable; that would have suited Judithe." "Not if it was the fashion," laughed the Countess Helene; "she would insist on being original." "The Marquise has a lovely name," remarked Mrs. McVeigh; "one could not imagine a weak or unattractive person called Judithe." "No; they could not," agreed her friend, "it makes one think of the tragedy of Holofernes. It suggests the strange, the fascinating, the unusual, and--it suits Madame la Marquise." "Your approval is an unconscious compliment to me," remarked the dowager, indulging herself in a tiny pinch of snuff and tapping the jeweled lid of the box; "I named her." "Indeed!" and Mrs. McVeigh smiled at the complacent old lady, while the Countess Helene almost stared. Evidently she, also, had heard the opinions concerning the young widow's foreign extraction. Possibly the dowager guessed what was passing in her mind, for she nodded and smiled.