CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
Miss Howe pushed the portière aside with a curved hand and gracefullyseparated fingers; it was a staccato movement, and her body followed itafter an instant's poise of hesitation, head thrust a little forward,eyes inquiring, and a tentative smile, although she knew precisely whowas there. You would have been aware at once that she was an actress.She entered the room with a little stride, and then crossed it quickly,the train of her morning gown—it cried out of luxury with the cheapestvoice—taking folds of great audacity, as she bent her face in its loosemass of hair over Laura Filbert, sitting on the edge of a bamboo sofa,and said—
"You poor thing! Oh, you poor thing!"
She took Laura's hand as she spoke, and tried to keep it; but the handwas neutral, and she let it go. "It is a hand," she said to herself, inone of those quick reflections that so often visited her ready-made,"that turns the merely inquiring mind away. Nothing but passion couldhold it."
Miss Filbert made the conventional effort to rise, but it came tonothing, or to a mere embarrassed accent of their greeting. Then hervoice showed this feeling to be merely superficial, made nothing of it,pushed it to one side.
"I suppose you cannot see the foolishness of your pity," she said. "Oh,Miss Howe, I am h