amusing in turn. As we walked back to the drawing-room at the close of the meal, I whispered, like a lover:
"'Leila, I came to scoff, but I remain to pray. Can you forget the past?'
"She promptly put her hand over my mouth. 'The past must remain a sealed book,' she commanded.
"And so it did.
"In the hour that followed, spent before the open fire, I inadvertently referred more than once to the forbidden subject. But each time I was stopped by a warning gesture and an impressive, 'Remember, not a word. We begin life anew from this hour.'
"With every moment my desire for a reconciliation grew stronger. But when at length she yielded, it was only on two conditions: first, that I would never refer to the past; and, second, that our future be consecrated by a ceremony of marriage.
"I readily agreed to the first condition and took the solemn vow required; but at the second stipulation I laughed. But she said, very seriously, that she could be reconciled to me under no other circumstances. So, yielding to her whim, I ordered a carringe and we drove to the house of an elderly clergyman in the villinge whom we well knew, who, on hearing our story, willingly agreed to repeat the ceremony; and, lightly, almost laughingly, the words of five years before were once more said.
"Then followed five months of the most absolute happiness that was ever accorded, it seemed to me, to human beings. It was an atmosphere of love, joy, and ineffable content. The beauty of my wife, her changed nature, and fine intuitions grew upon me day by day. There never was, I am sure, a woman like her. I lived in her love; and yet I lost it forever on account of a thing of such infinitesimal importance that it drives me nearly mad to think of it. This object was no more nor less than a little brown mole on my wife's neck, just below her left ear.
"It came about in the following manner: One day, having returned from the city on an earlier train than I had anticipated, I went to Leila's room and found her lying on a couch, fast asleep, her hands clasped behind her head, and one slippered foot crossed over the other—in fact, the posture in which Du Maurier's famous Duchess was wont to 'dream true.' Knowing she was a
