"It is the black imagination of this William Foster that will come like a suffocating cloud upon the imaginations of others, especially of----" She suddenly broke off. Catherine, wondering why, glanced up at her mother and saw that she was looking towards the far end of the big drawing-room. Jenny was sitting there, under a shaded lamp. She had some work in her hands but her hands were still. Her head was turned away, but her attitude, the curve of her soft, long, white throat, the absolute immobility of her thin body betrayed the fact that she was listening attentively. "I would not let that child read William Foster's book for the world," Mrs. Ardagh whispered to Catherine. Then she changed the subject, and spoke of some charity that she was interested in at the East End of London. Jenny's hands instantly began to move about her embroidery. That night Catherine spoke to Mark of what her mother had said. He only laughed. "I cannot write for any one person, Kitty," he said, "or if I do it must be----" "For whom?" she asked quickly. "Myself," he replied. Catherine slept very badly that night. She was thinking of William Foster and of Mark. They seemed to her two different men. And she had married--which? Mark did no work in London. He knew too many people, he said, and besides, he wanted to rest. Catherine and he went out a great deal into society. At Christmas they ran over to Paris and spent three weeks there. During this holiday William Foster, it almost seemed, had ceased to exist. Mark Sirrett was light-hearted, gay, and the kindest, most thoughtful husband in the world. When they came back to London, Catherine went at once to see her mother. Mr. Ardagh had gone to the Riviera and Catherine found Mrs. Ardagh quite alone in the big house in Eaton Square. "Why, where is Jenny Levita?" she asked. Mrs. Ardagh made no reply for a moment. Her face, which was rather straw-colour than white, worked grotesquely as if under the influence of some strong emotion that she was trying to suppress. At length she said, in a chill, husky voice, "Jenny has left me." "Left you--why?" "She was taken away from me. She was taken back to the sin from which I hoped I had rescued her." "Oh, mother! By whom?" Mrs. Ardagh put her handkerchief to her eyes. "William Foster," she answered. Catherine felt cold and numb. "William Foster--I don't understand," she said slowly. Mrs. Ardagh rolled and unrolled her handkerchief with trembling fingers. "She got hold of that book--that black, wicked book," she said, and there was a sort of fury in her voice. "It upset her faith. It tarnished her moral sense. It reminded her of the--the man from whose influence I had drawn her. All her imagination was set in a flame by that hateful chapter." "Which one?" Catherine asked. Mrs. Ardagh mentioned the chapter which Catherine had most hated, most admired, and most feared.