were paying a mere visit of etiquette to my cousin Emmeline. Is it usual in Paris for ladies in mourning to go out paying calls? But perhaps you had a special object in calling on Emmeline.”

“I had,” she replied at once with dignity, “and I did not wish you to know.”

“What was it?”

“Really, Mr. Foster — ”

“‘Mr. Foster!’“

“Yes; I won’t call you Carl any more. I have made a mistake, and it is as well you should hear of it now. I can’t love you. I have misunderstood my feelings. What I feel for you is gratitude, not love. I want you to forget me.”

She was pale and restless.