Mrs. Keith was prepared for a “scene”; she was annoyed at missing it, and her easy triumph led her on. She thought, too, of the young girl up stairs, combing out her golden hair, and seeing no logic in her looking-glass. She had dragged a heavy gun to the front; she determined to fire her shot. So much virtue had never inspired her with so little respect. She played a moment with the bow on her morning dress. “Let me thank you for your great humility,” she said. “Do you know I was going to be afraid of you, so that I had intrenched myself behind a great big preposterous fact? I met, last evening, Mrs. Chatterton of New York. You know she’s a great talker, but she talks to the point. She mentioned your engagement to a certain young lady, a dark-eyed person,—need I repeat the name?” There was no need of her repeating names; Hubert stood before her, flushing crimson, with his blue eyes flashing cold wrath. He remained silent a moment, shaking a scornful finger at her. “For shame, madam,” he cried. “That’s in shocking taste! You might have been generous; it seems to me I deserve it.” And with a summary bow he departed. Mrs. Keith repented of this extra touch of zeal; the more so as she found that, practically, Nora was to be the victim of the young man’s displeasure. For four days he gave no sign; Nora was left to explain his absence as she might. Even Roger’s amendment failed to console her. At last, as the two ladies were sitting at lunch, his card was brought in, superscribed _P.P.C._ Nora read it in silence, and for a moment rested her eyes on her companion with a piteous look which seemed to ask, “Is it you I have to thank for this?” A torrent of remonstrances rose to Nora’s lips, but they were sealed by the reflection that, though her friend might have been concerned in Hubert’s desertion, its peculiar abruptness had a peculiar motive. She pretended to occupy herself with her plate; but her self-control was rapidly ebbing. She silently rose and retreated to her own room, leaving Mrs. Keith moralizing, over her mutton-chop, upon the miseries of young-ladyhood and the immeasurable egotism of the man who would rather produce a cruel effect than none at all. For a week after this Nora was seriously ill. On the day she left her room she received a short note from Hubert. NEW YORK. DEAR NORA: You have, I suppose, been expecting to hear from me; but I have not written, because I am unable to write as I wish and unwilling to write as—other people would wish! I left Boston suddenly, but not unadvisedly. I shall for the present be occupied here. The last month I spent there will remain one of the best memories of my life. But it was time it should end! Remember me a little—what do I say?—forget me! Farewell. I received this morning from the doctor the best accounts of Roger.