Madelene was for a moment surprised out of that perfect self-unconsciousness which is probably the rarest of human qualities, and which was her greatest charm to those who knew her well. She blushed furiously and angrily. Her and Arthur's love was to her most sacred, absolutely between themselves. When any outsider could observe them, even her sister Walpurga, she seemed so much the comrade and fellow-worker in her attitude toward him that people thought and spoke of their married life as "charming, but cold." Alone with him, she showed that which was for him alone--a passion whose strength had made him strong, as the great waves give their might to the swimmer who does not shrink from adventuring them. Adelaide's impulsive remark, had violated her profoundest modesty; and in the shock she showed it. "I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Adelaide, though she did not realize wherein she had offended. Love was an unexplored, an unsuspected mystery to her then--the more a mystery because she thought she knew from having read about it and discussed it and reasoned about it. "Oh, I understand," said Madelene, contrite for her betraying expression. "Only--some day--when you really fall in love--you'll know why I was startled." Adelaide shrank within herself. "Even Madelene," thought she, "who has not a glance for other people's affairs, knows how it is between Dory and me." It was Madelene's turn to be repentant and apologetic. "I didn't mean quite that," she stammered. "Of course I know you care for Dory--" The tears came to Del's eyes and the high color to her cheeks. "You needn't make excuses," she cried. "It's the truth. I don't care--in _that_ way." A silence; then Madelene, gently: "Was this what you came to tell me?" Adelaide nodded slowly. "Yes, though I didn't know it." "Why tell _me_?" "Because I think I care for another man." Adelaide was not looking away. On the contrary, as she spoke, saying the words in an even, reflective tone, she returned her sister-in-law's gaze fully, frankly. "And I don't know what to do. It's very complicated--doubly complicated." "The one you were first engaged to?" "Yes," said Del. "Isn't it pitiful in me?" And there was real self-contempt in her voice and in her expression. "I assumed that I despised him because he was selfish and calculating, and _such_ a snob! Now I find I don't mind his selfishness, and that I, too, am a snob." She smiled drearily. "I suppose you feel the proper degree of contempt and aversion." "We are all snobs," answered Madelene tranquilly. "It's one of the deepest dyes of the dirt we came from, the hardest to wash out." "Besides," pursued Adelaide, "he and I have both learned by experience--which has come too late; it always does." "Not at all," said Madelene briskly. "Experience is never too late. It's always invaluably useful in some way, no matter when it comes."