“_I’ve_ made no promises,” said this lady to herself, “and if I get a chance, I shall pay them both out--Mrs. Nose-in-the-Air, and the divorcée.” Now here was the ‘chance’ looking so beaming and pleased with herself, as she tripped beside her hostess, along the Liongasse; and with this girl as the instrument, Miss Plassy felt certain she could inflict satisfactory punishment upon her mother. How she talked! chattering all the time, and bubbling over with the _joie de vivre_. “Yes, thank you,” said Cara, as they seated themselves, “a Pêche Melba--I adore ices!” She removed her gloves, and settled her hat with swift instinctive touches; and presently the two were exchanging confidences as they sat _vis-à-vis_ across the marble-topped table, awaiting their order. “We are going on to St. Moritz next week,” announced Miss Plassy. “Are you? How I envy you! We never go on.” “No? But why not?” “Because we are so poor.” “We are poor too--church mice aren’t in it!” “But not like us; we have not enough money to travel, or to live in England.” “Come, come, my dear girl,” protested Lyddy, suddenly planting her elbows on the table, and staring into her face, “don’t be a little ostrich! Surely you know--ah, here come our Pêche Melbas at last!” “About what?” enquired Cara, plunging in her ready spoon. “About your _mother_, my dear.” “My mother! What about her?” The girl’s face was expressive of profound indifference. “Can’t you guess? Well, look here, promise me you won’t ever give me away?” “All right,” agreed Cara with a nod. “I can keep a secret--I know lots!” “Tell me, have you never wondered, why you live out here?” “Yes, but I’ve told you the reason.--We are so disgustingly poor.” “Not really poor; your father is enormously rich, actually rolling in money.” “I don’t know what you are talking about!” protested Cara querulously. “You are thinking of other people--_my_ father is dead,” and she took another spoonful of ice. “Well, yes, in a way. He _is_ dead to your mother.” Cara gazed at the speaker blankly, her eyes became round, the pupils looked like two small spots. “Listen to me,” and as Miss Plassy leant across the table, spoon in hand, her voice was emphatic, and her manner forcible. “You must know some time, and I may as well tell you--_they_ never will!” “Tell me what?” “Why, about your father and mother,” a pause, followed by a dramatic whisper, “_he divorced her_.” “Miss Plassy, how dare you!” Cara’s face was crimson. “I don’t believe you,” she added hysterically. “Oh, very well, please yourself, my dear,” she replied with a mixture of malice and gaiety. “The case was in all the papers, fourteen years ago. People in England knew all about it,--and my mother remembers it perfectly.” Cara suddenly pushed away her plate, she was trembling violently, her lips quivered. Was she going to cry?