I had an engagement with Mary Kirkwood to walk in the Bois and have tea the afternoon of the day this paragraph reached me. When I arrived at her apartment she came down ready to go. Her costume was so lovely and I so delighted in her that I did not immediately note the heavy circles round her eyes nor the drawn expression of her mouth. I did not dream that she knew of the paragraph. I had read it and had dismissed it from my mind. The anonymous letter and the anonymous newspaper attack were old familiar stories to me, as they are to every man who attains distinction in active life. But as we drove toward the Bois I happened to catch a glimpse of her by way of the mirror in the frame of the taxi. I saw the evidence of suffering--and the wistful, weary look in her beautiful eyes. “What is it?” said I. “You have had bad news?” “Yes,” replied she. “Can I help?” “Don’t let’s talk of it now,” said she. “Wait until we are in the woods.” Soon after we passed the entrance gates we descended and rambled away over the not too even ground, along the indistinct paths under the fascinating little trees. It was a gorgeous, perfumed May day. You know the Bois--how lovely it is, how artfully it mingles the wild and the civilized, suggesting nature as a laughing nymph with tresses half bound, half free, with graceful young form half clad, half nude. We rambled on and on, and after half an hour seated ourselves where there were leaves and the slim graceful trunks on every side and the sound of falling water like the musical voice of the sunbeams. Mary drew a long sigh. “I feel better,” she said. I looked at her. “You _are_ better. You have shaken it off.” She met my gaze. “This is the last time,” she said. She looked away, repeated softly, thoughtfully, “the last time.” “The last time?” “We are not going to see each other any more. It is being misunderstood.” I glanced quickly at her, and I knew she had read the paragraph. “That miserable scandal sheet!” said I. “No one sees it--and if they did why should we notice anything so ridiculous?” She did not answer immediately. After a while she said: “Perhaps I ought not to say it, but--Hartley is sensitive. A copy of the paper got to him.” “One to me. One to you. One to him.” “No matter,” said she. “The mischief is done.” “You do not give up a friend lightly,” rejoined I. The time to speak was at hand; I welcomed it. “_He_ has asked me to give you up,” said she simply. “And I shall do it.” “But he has no right to ask such a thing,” protested I. “Yes--he has. He and I are engaged--you knew that?” “I imagined there was some sort of an engagement,” said I, still waiting for the right opening. “There is only one sort of engagement possible with me,” replied she, with a certain gentle reproach. “I know that,” said I. “But I remember the talk we had on the yacht.” A flush overspread her paleness for a moment. Then she rose from the little rustic iron chair. “We must go,” said she.