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A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. Close upon this came another thought. “It’s THE Society!” said Miss Miniver. Anna merely glanced at the coarse, flushed features, and at once shook her head. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. But he has never been near her—never. It was the incendiary intellectuals of the bourgeoisie, with their militant ideas of revolution, who had raised the populace to a pitch of violence resulting in cases of wholesale slaughter—such as had overtaken the Valades. Miss Klegg raised the question of women’s suffrage, and he set himself to provoke a duel between her and Miss Garvice. I know life. A hundred pounds to the man who takes him. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains.

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