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Rh wasn't—wondered why I had come in such an informal manner and so disgracefully soon, hoped dear Arthur was well, and—well, would I not sit down, and take off my cloak?

I unbosomed myself without any delay. I did not attempt to shield Arthur's neglect. I felt that he deserved everything I could say—and more. I did not tell my mother that I was miserable, because my ideas of misery and happiness did not coincide with hers. I simply laid the situation before her, and asked her superior knowledge of the world what it all meant.

Her languor disappeared as I proceeded; she even sat up straight in her lounge-chair, and when I came to an end she deliberately closed her novel—a tacit recognition of the fact that I was more entertaining than her author.

"Well, my dear," she said blandly, when I paused, "this story is strange indeed, but—but singularly interesting."

"Interesting?" I asked, horrified.

"Yes, my dear, certainly interesting. Though I always thought Arthur Ravener a peculiar young man—you remember when I saw you two