Mrs. Delamere did not reply. She rose and gathered her gloves and fan from a table where they were lying, and then came calmly up to Minna’s chair. “You are overdone. It is time for bed.” She was not without kindly instincts. In her placid, well-bred way, she stooped and put her arm beneath Minna’s and helped her to rise. She stood for a moment without withdrawing her arm. “You are leading a weary life, my poor child,” she said. Minna looked at her for a minute. Her lips quivered. “Oh! a hell of a life,” she whispered. And to Mrs. Delamere’s consternation, the girl gave one or two little convulsive sobs and, turning swiftly, burst into miserable crying upon her shoulder. “I wish I were dead. I can’t find peace or happiness anywhere. It is a hell of a life!” The elder woman soothed her as best she could. Eventually Minna dried her eyes, kissed, for the first time, her friend’s faded cheek, and went out of the room. “Why is it,” said Mrs. Delamere to herself, “that when a woman wants to go to the devil, she always does so by water?” Gerard was up early the next morning, and after enquiries went in search of a respectable turn-out for the proposed drive. He found a high American phaeton and a pair of Irish ponies which the livery stable keeper had recently purchased from a dissipated young Englishman who, having ruined himself at the tables, had hurriedly hastened to England to enlist in a foot regiment. On returning towards the Public Gardens, he encountered his club acquaintance sitting outside the Café de la Victoire. He joined him in an _apéritif_, described his recent hire. The friend smiled indulgently. “I suppose it’s for the Queen of Sheba.” Gerard frowned surprise. “Who’s that?” “The girl I’ve seen you with several times. They call her that, I suppose, because she’s wealthy, dusky, and indiscreet.” “I used to know her in London long ago,” said Gerard, stiffly. Suddenly the man remembered, flushed, and apologised. “I’m awfully sorry. A thousand pardons. But one gets into a bad way of talking of public characters--and unfortunately every one talks of the lady by that name.” Gerard sipped his vermouth coolly. “What do you know about her?” “Oh, nothing much. Really--I----” “It would rather interest me to learn,” insisted Gerard. “Well, she squanders a lot of money at the tables. And then she’s always attached to some new man or the other. Somewhat speckled, you see, in reputation. Introduction not necessary. That sort of thing. I don’t know if it’s true. I hope not.” “Oh, I suppose it’s true,” said Gerard. “Women generally live a bit below their reputation.” “I’m glad my indiscretion was not serious,” said his friend. “Oh, dear, no,” laughed Gerard; and, turning the subject aside, “If you are doing nothing you might as well come and have some lunch with me at the Grande Bretagne.”