“But to return to our outing,” resumed Paula, “of course, under the circumstances,” with a slanting glance at the presumably grief-stricken ermine and velvet, “I can’t make up a party of pleasure for myself,--it must be complimentary to my dear young friend, and its personnel must be selected with that view.” Once more her hand crept into Hildegarde’s muff. She paused reflectively for a moment, while her mood seemed to change, and when she went on it was in a different tone and with a crestfallen look. “To be quite frank with you, dear, I have a strong personal interest in the occasion. I really want an excuse to get out of the town myself. There’s a man here whom I want to avoid, and I’m forever meeting him.” “I wonder,” commented the guileless girl. “It is always easier to run away from a thing like that than to bring it to a crisis, and really in this instance circumstances will not admit of any canvassing of the matter.” Hildegarde’s face was eloquent of interest, but she decorously forbore inquiry. “If I mention the name you won’t repeat it, though I don’t see why I should, but Heaven knows I am so lonely I long to confide my troubles to some sympathetic soul.” And now it was Hildegarde’s hand that stole into the ermine muff with an ardent little clasp which was convulsively returned. “You can say anything you wish to me, dear Mrs. Floyd-Rosney, and rely on my silence.” She turned such pellucidly clear azure eyes on Paula. She looked so docile and ingenuous, that for one moment the heart of the schemer almost misgave her. And indeed in the old days, before Paula ever met Floyd-Rosney, she would have been incapable of the duplicity which she now contemplated. But when sordid worldly motives are permitted to enter the soul of a woman and to dominate it they work its ultimate disintegration, despite the presence of worthier traits which otherwise might have proved cohesive. As, however, she spoke the name already on her lips she detected a quiver in the little hand she held, and that vague tremor served to renew her purpose and nerved her to go on. “It is Randal Ducie,” she said. For she had deliberately planned at whatever sacrifice of truth to implant distrust and aversion toward Randal Ducie in the mind of this girl of high ideals; to remove her for a time from the sphere of his influence and the opportunity of explanation; in the interval to supplant him in her estimation with others of carefully vaunted attributes. By the time Hildegarde Dean should return from Saint Simon’s Island she would not tolerate his presence, and in the humiliation of her contempt Randal Ducie might find a solace in recurring to the page of that sweet old story, albeit he had so hardily declared the book was closed.