held its reins in their hands for the time being. "It is too great leniency which makes such things possible," some one remarked. "To a woman with a hitherto unspotted reputation and in an entirely respectable position they should be impossible." It was on the very evening that this remark was made that Bertha expressed a rather curious opinion to Laurence Arbuthnot. "It is dawning upon me," she said, "that I am not quite so popular as I used to be, and I am wondering why." "What suggested the idea?" Laurence inquired. "I scarcely know," she replied, a little languidly, "and I don't care so much as I ought. People don't talk to me in so animated a manner as they used to--or I fancy they don't. I am not very animated myself, perhaps. There is a great deal in that. I know I am deteriorating conversationally. What I say hasn't the right ring exactly, and I suppose people detect the false note, and don't like it. I don't wonder at it. Oh, there is no denying that I am not so much overpraised and noticed as I used to be!" And then she sat silent for some time and appeared to be reflecting, and Laurence watched her with a dawning sense of anxiety he would have been reluctant to admit the existence of even to himself. CHAPTER XXVII. A few days after this she told Richard that she wished to begin to make her arrangements for going away for the summer. "What, so early!" he exclaimed, with an air of some slight discontent. "It has been quite cool so far." "I remained too late last year," she answered; "and I want to make up for lost time." They were at dinner, and he turned his wineglass about restlessly on the table-cloth. "Are you getting tired of Washington?" he asked. "You seem to be." "I am a little tired of everything just now," she said; "even"--with a ghost of a laugh--"of the Westoria lands and Senator Planefield." He turned his wineglass about again. "Oh," he said, his voice going beyond the borders of petulance, "it is plain enough to see that you have taken an unreasonable dislike to Planefield!" "He is too large and florid, and absorbs too much of one's attention," she replied, coldly. "He does not always seem to absorb a great deal of yours," Richard responded, knitting his delicate dark brows. "You treated him cavalierly enough last night, when he brought you the roses." "I am tired of his roses!" she exclaimed, with sudden passion. "They are too big, and red, and heavy. They cost too much money. They fill all the air about me. They weight me down, and I never seem to be rid of them. I won't have any more! Let him give them to some one else!" And she threw her bunch of grapes on her plate, and dropped her forehead on her hands with a childish gesture of fatigue and despair. Richard knit his brows again. He regarded her with a feeling very nearly approaching nervous dread. This would not do, it was plain. "What is the matter with you?" he said. "What has happened? It isn't like _you_ to be unreasonable, Bertha."