"And you will forgive me my treachery to yourself?" "My dear Keith," she says, with a little quivering smile. "I knew you were making a cat's-paw of me, but somehow I didn't mind that so much, if it would have been any real good to you. In time, I thought perhaps you might have got fond of me. Lots of men are, you know; but I began to see that it wouldn't do--that you couldn't take to me, and no wonder, when I was so different to--her. But as for forgiving, that's no big thing to do. And I never bear malice; 'tisn't in me. Yes, you go right straight away out of the country, and I'll make all this look natural enough, don't you fear. You're not the first young man I've knocked off by many. I'm a born flirt, they say. Well, I'm only acting up to my character." Behind the bright eyes is a weight of tears she longs to shed, and will not. The brave little heart is throbbing and aching with pain. But Keith sees nothing, suspects nothing. He is only relieved she takes it so well, that after all she does not seem to care so very much. He rises and holds out his hands. "You are far too good to me, Nan," he says brokenly. "I feel ashamed when I think of my conduct. God bless you, child, and make you happy." "Too good to you," echoes Nan softly. "I don't know. It strikes me, Keith, that you are just the sort of fellow women would be 'good to.' I surmise they can't help it. It's just your way with them, you know. So it's really 'Good-bye.' Take my advice and go to the Rockies and shoot grizzlies. That'll cure you if anything will." Not by any means a romantic parting, or a touching one; but it is a very faithful heart that masks its pain so bravely, and a very loving one too. A week later, and town is eagerly discussing two startling pieces of news. One is that Keith Athelstone, the rich young American, has sailed for Timbuctoo or Tahiti, or New Zealand, people are not quite sure which; the other that Joel Salomans, the great millionaire, has come to smash over some gigantic speculation, and has blown his brains out in his hotel in Paris. In the deepest of mourning, with her handsome brows drawn into an angry frown, with a pile of letters and papers on the table before her, sits Lady Jean. "It is ruin, simply ruin!" she mutters fiercely, as she pushes the pile impatiently aside and looks at the long column of figures before her. Ruin to her means some five hundred a year, secured to herself, and a country house bought and settled on her by Mr. Salomans a year before. She is at present in Paris. It is a week since her husband's death, and the scandal and _esclandre_ are flying everywhere, and adorning special articles in all the society journals.