"I wish I could have died! I would like to have died!" 

Feathers picked up her gloves and fan, which had fallen to the floor. His ugly face was commiserating as he looked at her. 

"The room was very stuffy. It was inconsiderate of us to let you be 26 there, Mrs. Lawless. I am afraid it was my fault!" 

26

His fault. Everything was his fault, she told herself bitterly, as she turned away. And yet—surely it was better to know now the true facts of her marriage than to learn them later on—when it was too late. 

A bachelor husband. How infinitely funny it was! She looked at Chris as he walked with her to the stairs. His eyes were concerned, but as he had said, she had "only fainted," and a faint was nothing. She wondered if he would have cared had she been dead. 

He slipped a hand through her arm to steady her. 

"I am afraid it was all my fault," he said. "You told me you were tired. I'm sorry, Marie Celeste." 

Her lip quivered at the sound of the two little names. Nobody but Chris ever called her that, and she turned her head away. 

"I'll fetch one of the maids to look after you," he said, as they reached her room. He turned away, but she called him back. 

"Chris, I want to speak to you." 

"Well?" He followed her into the room. A pretty room it was the best in the hotel, and the very new silver brushes and trinkets which Aunt Madge had given her for a wedding present were laid out on the dressing-table. 

When she had dressed there for dinner only two hours ago she had been the happiest girl in the world, but now . . . a long, shuddering sigh broke from her lips. 

Chris was looking at her anxiously. He was worried by her pallor, and sorry she had fainted, but he quite realized that there was nothing serious in a faint. Some women made it a habit, he believed, and he was anxious to get back and finish that game of billiards!

"What do you want to say to me?" he asked. "Won't it do presently?" 

She shook her head. 

"No." 

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