Paula's cheeks were like Jacqueminot roses and her eyes sparkled like the sun on deep green water. As was habitual when greatly moved, her speech was swift and torrential, and she gestured with quick hands, shoulders, and little nods and jerks of her head. "He was so darling and manly; he said that when you refused him he was sure that his life was blasted and that he would never love again. Then, instead of moping or travelling, or drinking, he went to work with his charity and that healed the wound, and now he is deeply in love again ... with _me_ this time ... and oh, Cécile, I just adore him ... and always have...." "What?" cried Cécile, sharply. "Yes, dear. Even when he was in love with you" ... Paula's rich colour deepened ... "because it was plain enough that you did not care for him in that way. If he had come to me at once for consolation, I would never have married him. Never, never, never! It might even have killed my love for him. But now that he has gone away and got over it and come back heart-whole ... Cécile! Why do you look at me in that odd way...?" Paula's eyes opened very wide. She stared at her sister, and slowly the colour faded from her face, leaving it white. Cécile stared back without answering. In the course of Paula's rapid recital she had made up her mind. Wood had told her when she refused to marry him that he would love her always, nevertheless, and Cécile chose to believe him. Under these circumstances she did not think that Paula should be permitted to marry him. So she stared at her sister with a set, pale face. "Cécile...!" cried Paula, her voice trembling so that she could scarcely speak. "Do you ... are you ... do you ... care for him ... yourself?" Cécile's eyes filled. The colour flooded her face. She was one of those natural actresses of whom the very reflex emotions lend themselves to the rôle. Paula was clinging to the foot of her bed, watching her sister with a white, anguish-filled face. "_Do_ you?" she cried, despairingly. Cécile nodded. "Yes..." she whispered, then twisted upon her side and buried her face in the pillows. For several minutes she remained in this position, during which time a choked sob and the rustle from Paula's rain-coat, followed by the gentle closing of her door, told her that her sister had gone. Cécile then raised herself, glancing instinctively in the mirror at the side of her bed. There was a hot flush on her cheeks; her hair was in disorder, and her grey eyes held a sullen look. Altogether, her appearance was not pleasing to her. "I look like a pussy-cat!" she muttered, and slipped out of bed. Standing before the mirror, she gently massaged her face with her hands. "And I rather think I am one, too..." she added, under her breath.