"I do not think papa has spoken to him for some time," Bertha replied. "And when he first referred to his plan Laurence thought it out of the question, and did not appear to regard it seriously." For a few moments Mrs. Sylvestre did not speak. Then she said: "Certainly it would be much better for him than to remain here." "If he should go," said Bertha, "no one will miss him as I shall. We used to be so gay together, and now"-- She did not end her sentence, and for a while neither of them spoke again, and she lay quite still. Agnes remained to dine with her, and in the evening Arbuthnot came in. When he entered the bright, familiar room he found himself glancing round it, trying to understand exactly what mysterious change had come upon it. There was no change in its belongings,--the touches of color, the scattered trifles, the pictures and draperies wore their old-time look of having been arranged by one deft hand; but it did not seem to be the room he had known so long,--the room he had been so fond of, and had counted the prettiest and most inspiring place he knew. Bertha had not left the sofa; she was talking to Agnes, who stood near her. She had a brilliant flush on her cheeks, her eyes were bright when she raised them to greet him, and her hand, as he took it, was hot and tremulous. "Naturally," she said, "you will begin to vaunt yourself. You told me I should break down if I did not take care of myself, and I have broken down--a little. I am reduced to lying on sofas. Don't you know how I always derided women who lie on sofas? This is retribution; but don't meet it with too haughty and vainglorious a spirit; before Lent I shall be as gay as ever." "I don't doubt it," he answered. "But in the meantime allow me to congratulate you on the fact that the sofa is not entirely unbecoming." "Thank you," she said. "Will you sit down now and tell me--tell me what people are saying?" "Of"--he began. She smiled. "Of me," she answered. "They were saying a great deal of me a week ago; tell me what they say now. You must hear in going your giddy rounds." "_You_ are very well treated," he replied. "There is a certain great lady who is most uncomfortably commented upon. I can scarcely imagine that she enjoys it." Her smile ended in a fatigued sigh. "The tide turned very quickly," she said. "It is well for me that it did. I should not have had much mercy if I had stood alone. Ah! it was a good thing for me that you were all so brave. You might have deserted me, too--it would have been very simple--and then--then the gates of paradise would have been shut against me." "That figure of speech meaning--?" suggested Arbuthnot. "That I should have been invited to no more dinner-parties and receptions; that nobody would have come up to my Thursday Evenings; that Miss Jessup would never again have mentioned me in the _Wabash Gazette_." "That would have been very bitter," he answered. "Yes," she returned, "it would have been bitter, indeed."