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 she said, considering her opponent. 'If being in love was her excuse for killing him, then it was his excuse, too. He couldn't help it if he loved somebody else.'

'He could not help it!—And she could not help it! Well and good! So be it! But let us hear no more of blame and who was right and wrong!' cried the old lady. 'There is no right and wrong in such a case, to those who are composed of flesh and blood and not of eau sucrée. You do not know what love is. You have never felt passion. You are a child—a simple child! That has been made very plain to me more than once—for where there is no jealousy there is no passion.—These are dark themes, and since you do not understand them—or yourself—we will talk no more of them,' said Madame de Lamouderie, in such commanding tones that Jill gazed at her in astonishment. Not only was Madame de Lamouderie commanding her; but with a sub-flavour of insolence. She evidently believed her to be composed of eau sucrée. She was herself one of the people—Jill saw it in a flash of insight—who, in her ambiguous past, had scented out and trampled on weakness. Well, she had miscalculated her victim in this case.

Jill was not angry. She was displeased. She reflected for a moment and then rose. 'No; we won't talk about it any more. And it's time for me to go now. Good-bye,' she said.

It was almost pitiful, but almost repulsive, too, to see how quickly Madame de Lamouderie could crumble. Dismay withered her face; horror widened