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 its impulse. 'She told me all Mademoiselle Ludérac's story. Partly jealousy, no doubt. But, partly, trying to be square, to us both. She felt I ought to know, because of your friendship with her protégée. She was really rather fine. And she is evidently devoted, heart and soul, to Mademoiselle Ludérac.'

Jill lay, very still, behind him.

'It's a wretched story,' said Graham, 'and it will make you feel sick, I'm afraid. But I think you ought to know. I believe she herself would like you to know. She's tried her best to keep you at arm's length, hasn't she?—Mademoiselle Ludérac has been a courtesan, Jill.'

There was no sound behind him for a moment. And then Jill's voice came.

'Madame de Lamouderie said Marthe had been a courtesan?'

'No; she didn't say it. I did. She said that she'd taken lovers. That when she went to Bordeaux, after her mother's death, she took lovers—indiscriminately; except for the fact that she wasn't merely mercenary. She was alone, and poor, and had no prejudices;—so Madame de Lamouderie put it. And if she felt drawn to a little poilu, she'd give herself to him as soon as to a rich man.' An extraordinary bitterness had come to Graham's voice.

'And you believed her?' came Jill's voice, after another moment.

'Yes,' said Graham. 'I believed her. Why shouldn't I believe her?'