"About ten minutes," he said, rubbing his eyes and laughing. "Confound that chair—it’s infernally comfortable, after being up all night. You made me jump." Mrs. Bloodgood had regained her calm. She embraced Mrs. Kildair and held out her hand to Beecher. "Won’t you let me see you to your carriage?" he said eagerly, with a smile of such good will that she perceived that whatever he had overheard, she had no need to fear. "It’s not necessary—but thank you," she said, giving him a grateful smile. He went to the door, opening it with a little exaggerated courtesy, and returned thoughtfully to Mrs. Kildair, who was watching him fixedly. "You overheard?" she said directly. "A little." "And what did you understand from it?" "Why, frankly, knowing what I do, I should believe that Mrs. Bloodgood had decided to run away," he answered slowly; "which means, of course, one man. I am sorry. I could not help hearing." Mrs. Kildair had seated herself on the Récamier sofa and was studying him, undecided as to what she should say. "You have heard too much, Teddy, not to know all," she said, reassured by the directness of his glance. "Besides, in twenty-four hours it will be in every paper in the country. I do not need to ask your promise to keep secret what you have heard. She is leaving her home and going openly away with Mr. Majendie—this very afternoon." "Majendie running off?" said Beecher, astounded. "Yes." "Now—at such a time as this—when he is under fire? I don’t believe it!" "I should not have believed it either," said Mrs. Kildair thoughtfully. "I know his kind," declared Beecher warmly; "he would never commit such a folly—never!" "And yet, that is what is going to happen." "That is terrible. Doesn’t she realize that he lays himself open to every charge? He’ll be called a defaulter and an absconder—it is worse than death!" "She realizes nothing," said Mrs. Kildair in a solemn voice, "except that she has hated one man and lived with him ten years, and that now, when everything is against the man she adores, she will sacrifice anything to be at his side." "But the sacrifice he is making—" "Her sacrifice is too great—she doesn’t realize that," said Mrs. Kildair, rising. "Poor Elise! Her life has been terrible. She is wild with anxiety, with the thought of what Majendie may do. When one has suffered as much as she has, one more sorrow will not stop her." Beecher was silent, overcome by the vision of an emptiness which he could divine only in a general way, having as yet little knowledge of the silent tragedies that pass at our elbows. When Mrs. Kildair turned again, it was with all her accustomed poise. "We can do nothing," she said calmly. "Let us forget it. Luncheon is a little late. We shall be three; I asked Mr. Slade to join us. By the way, you were kind enough to offer me your help in the matter of my ring. I shan’t need it now, but thanks all the same." "What do you mean?" he asked, surprised.