She leaned back a little while without saying a word as they sped over the smooth snow. “It seems a shame to drag you into such an affair, Honora,” she said presently; “and I had not thought of it till I saw you, and then it came like a flash that you could help me. What I want of you is to write on a card that you and I are waiting for him. John will carry it in to him, and he will recognize your writing.” The horses were drawn up before a large marble hotel, lighted from basement to attic. The shops underneath were all closed; but from three broad lower windows a bright light shone around the heavy lowered curtains, and in the stillness they could hear the faint click of billiard‐balls. There was no sound of voices from inside, and it was impossible to know if the players were few or many. Honora wrote hastily, by the moonlight, as she was bid, “Annette and I are waiting for you,” and John took the card. “Why doesn’t he go to this door?” she asked, seeing the man disappear around a corner of the house. “You child!” said her friend compassionately; “are you so innocent as to suppose that any one can walk into one of those places when he pleases? These charming _réunions_ are held with locked doors, and one has to have the password to go in.” Honora was silent with indignation. To her mind, Lawrence could not do his wife a greater injury than in allowing her to become acquainted with such places, and she was half disposed to be vexed with Annette for not leaving him to himself, and refusing to be drawn into any objectionable scenes and associations. Annette divined the last thought, and replied to it. “It is impossible for a wife to be scrupulous as to the means by which she shall withdraw her husband from danger,” she said with quiet coldness. “They are one. If he is soiled, she cannot be quite clean, except in intention, unless she is very selfish; and then her intention is not good, which is worse yet. Of course she should be careful not to draw others into her affairs.” “You must know far better than I, Annette,” her friend said quickly, feeling as though she must have spoken her thought. “At all events, you cannot be called selfish. And, indeed, if the angels of heaven were over‐ scrupulous with regard to their associations, we should lack their guardianship.” Here John appeared, walking briskly round the corner of the hotel, and immediately after Lawrence Gerald came to the carriage‐door. “You here, Honora!” he exclaimed. “What could have induced you?” “We had better not ask each other questions,” she replied coldly. “It is late. Will you come home with us?” She drew back into a corner, and made room for him, with an air almost of disgust; for the moonlight showed his face flushed with drinking, and, as he spoke, a strong odor of brandy had been wafted into her face. He was too much confused for anything but simple obedience, and in rather a stumbling way took the seat assigned him.