looked surprised, and said that she had not read the book, nor known that it was published; Eleanor was a reticent woman at heart.

“There is a scene in it. The hero and heroine make love. Do you know about that?”

“Dear — ?”

“Do you know about it, please?” she repeated. “They are on a hillside, and Florence is in the distance.”

“My good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know nothing about it whatever.”

“There are violets. I cannot believe it is a coincidence. Charlotte, Charlotte, how could you have told her? I have thought before speaking; it must be you.”

“Told her what?” she asked, with growing agitation.