colored illusions in which women wrap their thoughts of themselves to their very selves, and looked, for once in her life, at the hard plain facts of her existence.
She had passed her first youth, girlhood was behind her, and at twenty-five she was a woman. Her beauty was still at its height, but it must wane, and the waning must begin before long. She had not so many chances open to her of changing her name as she had had last year, and every twelve months the chances would grow less and less. She had that very week walked as a bridesmaid before a bride whose bridegroom, a year previous, had declared himself desolate and broken-hearted at her refusal of his suit. He had consoled himself in so short a time with a pretty chit of eighteen, with pale, pleading blue eyes, and no figure at all! The constancy of man! But there was Cid. Did he still love her? She doubted it. He had never told her so since her return from Europe, though he had had many chances
