"Really Bertie was too expensive, he wanted so much pocket money, I could not afford the luxury of a _fiance_ on his terms. Of course, he is broken-hearted, dear boy, and naturally I wept a few poetical tears, and said I should always think of him as a friend." "The carriage is at the door," she replies, "they are getting the luggage down." Eleanor and Giddy go into the hall together. As Sarah carries the dressing bag out, it flies open, and something falls at Mrs. Mounteagle's feet. She picks it up. It is a photograph of Carol Quinton. "You must have that lock secured," she says laughing, "or buy a strap." Eleanor colours, and hides the photograph in her muff. "Good-bye, Giddy." "Take care of yourself, my sweet," returning Eleanor's caress. "I have no doubt it will be very merry and jolly in the country," with a little grimace that means it won't. But Mrs. Roche cares not to what corner of the globe she is travelling as the train bears her to Copthorne. She is too utterly miserable to notice places or seasons. She just sits by the window, and stares at the picture she has drawn from her muff, from which the eyes of Carol Quinton look pleadingly in hers. "I wish I could bury myself," she thinks, her mind turning to Africa--America--Asia--any of the far-off worlds she has read of in geography books and fiction. "I wish I were someone else, or even the old Eleanor that Philip stole from Copthorne Farm. Why did he not leave me there? It would have been far better for us both!" An elderly woman seated opposite glances at Eleanor over her paper, struck by the strange pallor of the young face, the nervous twitching of the mouth, and tear-dimmed eyes. The stranger leans forward suddenly with an abrupt question: "May I see that photograph?" [Illustration: "May I see that photograph?"] Eleanor starts in trepidation; her thoughts have been so far away that they are brought back to the present with an effort. She sees before her a face lined more deeply with sorrow than time, a woman who might still have considerable beauty had she not dyed her hair in her youth and ruined her complexion with cosmetics. The request does not offend Eleanor, for Mrs. Roche is easily won by a kind look or a smile. She hands the photograph across, watching the stranger's expression. "What a handsome face!" she exclaims, with a little gasp of admiration. "Yes," sighs Eleanor. "I never saw such mesmeric eyes, and yet they are soft, though powerful. I should say that man must have broken many a heart with those eyes." She looks shrewdly at Mrs. Roche as she speaks. "If he loves _you_," she continues, "he will be true." Eleanor's head droops. "You love him," said the stranger, reading the tell-tale blush. "Are you going to marry him, my dear?" "No," falters Eleanor, "I wish I could."