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 plated a flower led away in the sunshine. People believed him scornful and soured. The truth of his nature consisted in his capacity for passion and in the timidity of his temperament. What he lacked was the polished callousness of men of the world, the callousness from which springs an easy tolerance for one's self and others; the tolerance wide as poles asunder from true sympathy and human compassion. This want of callousness accounted for his sardonic turn of mind and his biting speeches.

In profound silence, and glaring viciously at the brilliant flower-bed, Dr. Monygham poured mental imprecations on Charles Gould's head. Behind him the immobility of Mrs. Gould added to the grace of her seated figure the charm of art, of an attitude caught and interpreted forever. Turning abruptly, the doctor took his leave.

Mrs. Gould leaned hack in the shade of the big trees planted in a circle. She leaned back with her eyes closed and her white hands lying idle on the arms of her seat. The half-light under the thick mass of leaves brought out the youthful prettiness of her face; made the clear light fabrics and white lace of her dress appear luminous. Small and dainty, as if radiating a light of her own in the deep shade of the interlaced boughs, she resembled a good fairy, weary with a long career of well-doing, touched by the withering suspicion of the uselessness of her labors, the powerlessness of her magic.

Had anybody asked her of what she was thinking, alone in the garden of the casa, with her husband at the mine and the house closed to the street like an