There was a note of sympathetic pity in her voice that was sweet and soothing in her hearer’s ear. They were both tasting the bitter cup that every man and woman must sometime hold to the lips, and in the moment of their sorrow their friendship for each other became more precious than it had ever been. It was hard to part at the greatest crisis in their lives, to say farewell when they needed from each other the inspiration that the closest intercourse could give. Cornelius Van Vleck and Percy-Bartlett entered the drawing-room. “I have great news for you both,” cried the former as he came forward, his phlegmatic face more animated than usual. They looked up at him inquiringly. “Your husband and I have a secret, Mrs. Percy-Bartlett,” he went on playfully. “Are you not curious to know what it is?” “Of course I am, Mr. Van Vleck. Am I not a woman?” The glimpse she caught of her husband’s face startled her. There was an unnatural flush in his cheeks, and his eyes were feverishly bright. “What is it, dear?” she exclaimed, rising and putting her hand on his arm. Percy-Bartlett smiled reassuringly. “Nothing serious,” he answered. “I disobeyed the doctor and smoked one of Mr. Van Vleck’s cigars. Furthermore,” and he looked at his host knowingly, “I fear that I am threatened with an attack of _mal-de-mer_.” Gertrude Van Vleck sprang up in excitement. “Do you mean it?” she cried. “O Harriet! don’t you understand? You are going with us. Am I not right, papa?” Cornelius Van Vleck smiled benignantly. “I have become your husband’s medical adviser,” he remarked, turning to Mrs. Percy-Bartlett, “and have ordered him to take a sea-voyage for his health.” “And you have agreed?” asked Mrs. Percy-Bartlett of her husband, her voice cold, almost harsh, from the excitement that she restrained. “If you wish,” he answered, seating himself wearily, and looking up at his wife with an affectionate gleam in his eyes. “It is almost too good to be true,” cried Gertrude Van Vleck, trying to meet Harriet’s averted gaze. “I am so happy.” “Is it not charming, Gertrude?” said Mrs. Percy-Bartlett, seating herself by her husband’s side and speaking with as much enthusiasm as she could summon to her aid. But she was not an actress, and to her husband and her confidante there seemed to be an unconvincing note in her voice, a suggestion that she was accepting the inevitable with a protest that vainly craved expression. CHAPTER XXIV.