Jemmie had always liked the old dog until the night Richard was born, when Mac lying outside her bedroom door had growled at Jemmie, who had come up to see how she was. No, after that Jemmie had never liked him, had always talked about its being a mistake to have a dog in a house where there were children. As if he would ever have hurt the children! It was only Jemmie he disliked. Yes, it was strange how much he disliked Jemmie. And now Jemmie had had him shot. Had it really been necessary ... no, that was unfair. She ought not even in thought to accuse Jemmie of anything like that. How sad the children would be to-morrow! Their beloved Mac. That was the kind of irritating thing Jemmie did. Fancy his telling nurse that the dear little dog was not to be allowed in the nursery! And nurse had given herself airs of such importance, because Jemmie had told her this himself. Ridiculous woman! "Mac! Mac!" Could it really be true that she should never again see that grizzled head and those faithful eyes? If Pierre did come to see her, would he ask after Mac, would he remember him? Pierre? Eleven years. Not quite eleven years since she saw him last. It was not a very long time really. So distinguished as he had looked! How had he come to find himself in Madagascar? He must have gone there after she had told him that everything was over. Pierre? It might seem less than eleven years to him. She tossed her hair back over her shoulders and rose from the dressing-table. In the benign gaslight her bureau stood invitingly open. "Yes, I will," she declared, and sitting down she wrote this note: Woodworth Lodge, Campden Hill, W. _May 3rd, 1891._ _Dear Pierre_, _I was at your lecture to-night. If you remember who I am after eleven years and feel inclined to renew an old acquaintance, won't you come and have tea with us on Wednesday next any time after four? I should so much enjoy to hear more about your adventure._ _Yours sincerely, Mary Alison._ There was no answer by post, but on Wednesday afternoon when she was sitting in the drawing-room, counting over to herself the woolen spiders and butterflies crawling up and down her curtains, he came. Once in the early days of marriage Mary had taken part with her husband in some amateur theatricals, in the course of which she had been attacked by stage fright and stood speechless on the stage for what seemed an age of agony before she regained her voice. It was the first time Jemmie was angry with her, and she had resolved never to act again. Now when Pierre was shown into the room she felt just as she felt then. Fortunately he was more at ease than she was, and under his guidance of the conversation Mary slowly recovered her self-possession.