“Yes,” she said, “I read it differently. It is not only the world which appears differently to two different people, even a letter may have two meanings to two readers. You shed a sort of gayety upon that----” She indicated the letter which he still held in his hand, and Deulin deprecated the suggestion by a shrug of the shoulders. “--which is not really there. To me it is the letter of a broken-hearted man,” she added slowly. There was an odd pause, during which Wanda seemed to reflect. She was at the parting of the ways. Even Deulin had nothing to say. He could not point out the path. Perhaps Cartoner had already done so by his own life, without any words at all. “I shall go to Warsaw to-night,” she said at last to Lady Orlay, “if you will not think me wanting in manners. Believe me, I do not lack gratitude. But--you understand?” “Yes, dear, I understand,” replied the woman who had known happiness. And she closed her lips quickly, as if she feared that they might falter. “It is so clearly my duty, and duty is best, is it not?” said Wanda. As she spoke she turned to Cartoner. The question was asked of none other. It was unto his judgment that she gave her case; to his wisdom she submitted the verdict of her life. She wished him to give it before these people. As if she took a subtle pride in showing them that he was what she knew him to be. She was sure of her lover; which is, perhaps, happiness enough for this world. “Duty is best, is it not?” she repeated. “It is the only thing,” he answered. Deulin was the first to speak. He had strong views upon last words and partings. The mere thought of such things made him suddenly energetic and active. He turned to Wanda with his watch in his hand. “Your mind is made up?” he asked. “You go to-night?” “Yes.” “Then I must go at once to see to your passport and make arrangements for the journey. I take you as far as Alexandrowo. I cannot take you across the frontier, you understand?” He turned to Cartoner. “And you? When do you go to Spain?” “To-night,” was the answer. “Then good-bye.” The Frenchman held out his hand, and in a moment was at the door. Lady Orlay followed him out of the room and closed the door behind her. She followed him down-stairs. In the hall they stood and looked at each other in silence. There were tears in the woman's eyes. But Deulin's smile was sadder. “And this is the end,” he said--“the end!” “No,” said Lady Orlay; “it is not. It cannot be. I have never known a great happiness yet that was not built upon the wreckage of other happinesses. That is why happy people are never gay. It is not the end, Paul. Heaven is kind.” “Sometimes,” answered Deulin, grudgingly. On the door-step he paused, and, facing her suddenly, he made a gesture indicating himself, commanding her attention to his long life and story. “Sometimes, milady.” End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Vultures, by Henry Seton Merriman