“It is Randal Ducie,” Paula repeated. “You know long ago,--is that front window closed--these chauffeurs hear everything if one is not careful,--well, long ago when I was with my grandmother,--we lived at Ingleside, Ran Ducie and I were engaged. Did you know that?” “I have heard it,” said Hildegarde, her face tense and troubled, her eyes unseeing and dreamily fixed. “You have heard, too, that I threw him over, having the opportunity to make a wealthy match.” “Ye-es,” admitted Hildegarde, embarrassed, “people say anything, you know. They gossip so awfully.” “Well,” said Mrs. Floyd-Rosney, looking out pathetically at the budding trees of the similitude of a forest as the car swung down the broad, smooth curves, “it was the other way about. It was _he_ who changed his mind. Then I had the opportunity of the grand match, the first time I ever was in New Orleans--and I took it out of pique. A girl is such a poor, silly, little fool.” Hildegarde was silent. There was so strong an expression of negation, of condemnation, of doubt on her face that Paula went on precipitately. “Of course, I wasn’t in the least justified.” “And you realized that?” said Hildegarde. “You see, I didn’t love my husband. You don’t understand these things, child. He was kind, in his way, and rich, and talented, and handsome----” “Oh, yes, he was splendid looking,” said Hildegarde, sustaining her pose of interest, but her lips were white. “But I didn’t love him--and I loved Randal. A girl, though, Hildegarde, cannot remonstrate against inconstancy. Randal came to me and said he had mistaken the state of his feelings, that the interest he had felt for me was merely because we happened to be the only two young people in the neighborhood and were thrown together so often; that he realized this as soon as he was again in the world, and that it was foolish for him to think of taking a wife in view of his limited resources. He asked to be released. So there was nothing for me to say but ‘Good day, Sir,’ with what dignity I could muster,--for, my dear girl, ‘Good day’ had already been said by him. Oh, kind Heaven, why do women have such keen memories? It wasn’t yesterday, surely.” Paula threw her face suddenly into its wonted pretty and placid and haughty contour, and bowed and smiled to a passing car, filled with bowing and smiling faces. “I couldn’t help feeling a bit triumphant that such a notable catch as Mr. Floyd-Rosney--so cultivated, and talented, and wealthy--should single me out as his preference as soon as he saw me.” “I think your feeling was very natural,” said Hildegarde, “but I don’t see why you should leave town on Randal Ducie’s account.” What made her lips so dry, she wondered. They fumbled almost unintelligibly on the words.