understand my situation. If I did so I could live comfortably, even luxuriously to the end of my days. I was rich, and could consequently make as many friends as I chose; I was intelligent—passably so—and could interest myself in the current events of the day. I was young—ah! that was it. Why was I young? Alas! I needed love, sympathy and respect. I was womanly in spite of my eccentricities, which were those of an ignorant, obstinate girl. What woman, young and impulsive, would consent to accept a situation such as that which had been thrust upon me—or into which I had voluntarily stepped, if you will,—for I do not attempt to defend myself?
No, I would not suffer such humiliation. "Let this be the last of my scruples," I said to myself as I dressed for dinner. "Let me know exactly what stands between me and my husband's love. It may possibly be removed, and then—." I loved Arthur desperately. If I could only have hated him, how much better would it have been for me—and for him.
"Madame is feverish," said Marie, suddenly, as she watched me in my efforts to beautify my-
