"Then when Barnard's command moved out we had our last distressing interview. And, if that night I spoke of your present husband and asked you to be a little wiser and use a little more discretion to avoid malicious comment--it was not because I dreamed of distrusting you--it was merely for your own guidance and because you had so often complained of other people's gossip about you. "To say I was stunned, crushed, when I learned of what had happened in my absence, is to repeat a trite phrase. What it cost me is of no consequence now; what it is now costing you I cannot help. "Yet, your letter, in every line, seems to imply some strange responsibility on my part for what you speak of as the degrading position you now occupy. "Degradation or not--let us leave that aside; you cannot now avoid being his wife. But as for any hostile attitude of society in your regard--any league or coalition to discredit you--that is not apparent to me. Nor can it occur if your personal attitude toward the world is correct. Discretion and circumspection, a happy, confident confronting of life--these, and a wise recognition of conditions, constitute sufficient safeguard for a woman in your delicately balanced position. "And now, one thing more. You ask me to meet you at Sherry's for a conference. I don't care to, Alixe. There is nothing to be said except what can be written on letter-paper. And I can see neither the necessity nor the wisdom of our writing any more letters." For a few days no reply came; then he received such a strange, unhappy, and desperate letter, that, astonished, alarmed, and apprehensive, he went straight to his sister, who had run up to town for the day from Silverside, and who had telephoned him to take her somewhere for luncheon. Nina appeared very gay and happy and youthful in her spring plumage, but she exclaimed impatiently at his tired and careworn pallor; and when a little later they were seated tete-a-tete in the rococo dining-room of a popular French restaurant, she began to urge him to return with her, insisting that a week-end at Silverside was what he needed to avert physical disintegration. "What is there to keep you in town?" she demanded, breaking bits from the stick of crisp bread. "The children have been clamouring for you day and night, and Eileen has been expecting a letter--You promised to write her, Phil--!" "I'm going to write to her," he said impatiently; "wait a moment, Nina--don't speak of anything pleasant or--or intimate just now--because--because I've got to bring up another matter--something not very pleasant to me or to you. May I begin?" "What is it, Phil?" she asked, her quick, curious eyes intent on his troubled face. "It is about--Alixe." "What about her?" returned his sister calmly. "You knew her in school--years ago. You have always known her--" "Yes."