her usual spring visit, which was always devoted to shopping and incidental frivolities. She was at the theatre with her husband one evening. The house was full, and between the acts she leant forward on the red velvet cushion before her seat in the dress circle and inspected the stalls with a view to seeing how the hair was being worn this season, and whether the sleeves in the new dinner-dress she had ordered were too outrageous. The buzz of talk and the tuneful wail of the violins fell pleasantly on her ears, as she scanned the rows of backs for a possible acquaintance.
"There's a beautiful woman. In the second box—look," her husband turned to her to say, lowering his glasses. "Do you see? In white—next to a good-looking fellow with a priggish nose."
"Why, it's Mrs. Margrave!" she exclaimed in surprise, after a moment's scrutiny. "Yes, isn't she lovely? And—yes, that wretched woman's there too," she added with a change of tone.
"Mrs. Margrave?" he repeated.
"Yes. You know, Jim. Cecily Armstrong. We dined at the Armstrongs' once, two or three years ago, don't you remember? I thought her beautiful then. Fancy seeing her here to-night. It must be quite two years since we met her. I wonder if she would recognise me?"
"She married that fellow, then? I had some idea it was all off?"
"So it was for a time. There was some mysterious fuss, don't you remember? But Mrs. Armstrong worked it. Cecily always did what she was told. I don't believe the poor child was even consulted. Look!" she broke off to exclaim indignantly. "He isn't paying her the smallest attention. He talks all the time to that horrid Miss Verrol. I always disliked her."
Mrs. Margrave was leaning back listlessly in her chair. Her
