“What name did she give?” asked Christine, her mind still full of Hugh Macneillie’s illness, and a terror seizing her that some bearer of ill news had come. Dugald Linklater handed her a card which bore a name quite unknown to her,--Mrs. Bouvery. She rose with a sigh of weariness. “Don’t wait for me, Charlie,” she said, “I am not hungry and will interview this lady first.” Everything in Christine’s drawing-room was in the perfection of taste, there were no bright colours; no incongruous mixtures, the prevailing tint was a quiet low-toned blue: birds sang in the window, and everywhere her love of growing plants manifested itself. Nothing could have been more restful and harmonious than the effect of the whole, and probably no one could have seemed more tranquil and self-possessed than the graceful fair-haired woman who came forward to greet her visitor, though all the time beneath the surface her restless heart was full of passionate pain. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long,” she said, her clear musical voice making each syllable a separate delight to the ear. As she spoke she looked wonderingly into the hard grief-worn face of the elderly lady who had risen as she entered and had coldly acknowledged her greeting. There was an uncomfortable pause. “Can I do anything for you?” said Christine, wondering whether her visitor had called for a subscription, or whether she was perhaps the mother of some stage-struck girl come for advice? “Yes,” said Mrs. Bouvery, “you can listen to what I have to tell you. You have broken my daughter’s heart madam, you have ruined her life.” Nervous terror began to fill Christine’s mind. Surely this lady must be mad. She instinctively measured the distance from the place where she was sitting to the door. “I do not understand you,” she faltered. “There must be some mistake. I do not even know your name.” “Your name unfortunately is only too familiar to us, however,” said her visitor remorselessly. “My daughter was engaged to be married to Captain Karey and until he had the misfortune to see you on the stage she was perfectly happy. From that day however, all her misery dated. He was infatuated about you and you lured him on to his death. “Madam,” said Christine pale with indignation, “you do me a very great wrong. I never encouraged Captain Karey. On the contrary his persistent attentions annoyed me very much.” “Oh, so you say! so they all say!” said Mrs. Bouvery choking back a sob. “But I don’t believe a word of it. You actresses are all alike; as long as your vanity is satisfied you don’t care what wretchedness you cause to others.” “Is it possible you really believe that I encouraged a mere boy who must have been at least fifteen years my junior?” said Christine incredulously. “The moment I saw there was the least risk of anything serious, I would have nothing more to do with him. Every one of the presents he tried to give me were returned immediately. What more could I do?”