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 she despised them for it. How she despised herself for it. Strange coincidence, that she should have sent Sheilah into Roger's very arms. Any one could see there was something between them. How happy Sheilah had seemed, and glowing. And how she had flushed when she had jibed her about the man who had been nice to her at Avidon's. And later how elaborately at ease Roger had tried to appear; and yet how impossible for him to avoid centering the entire conversation upon Sheilah, and the impression she had made at Avidon's, smiling at her in that fond, tender way of his, she used to know so well. What were they doing now together, alone?

She closed her eyes to shut out the image of it. How unaware they were of her, and her bitterness, and humiliation. Well, they would be always unaware. She would go abroad again as soon as possible. The underlying motive in returning to America had been the possibility of some sort of renewed relationship with Roger. But it was impossible. It had been demonstrated. She cared for him too much—still too much. Oh, when would the years come to her rescue?

But nothing happened between Sheilah and Roger that afternoon that Cicely needed to close her eyes to. Masked in his lightest and airiest manner he