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A FEW minutes before the dinner hour she came into the drawing room.Palmer and Madame Deliere were already there, near the fire which the unseasonable but by no means unusual coolness of the London summer evening made extremely comfortable--and, for Americans, necessary.Palmer stood with his back to the blaze, moodily smoking a cigarette.That evening his now almost huge form looked more degenerated than usual by the fat of high living and much automobiling.His fleshy face, handsome still and of a refined type, bore the traces of anxious sorrow.Clelie, sitting at the corner of the fireplace and absently turning the leaves of an illustrated French magazine, had in her own way an air as funereal as Freddie's.As Susan entered, they glanced at her.

Palmer uttered and half suppressed an ejaculation of amazement.Susan was dressed as for opera or ball--one of her best evening dresses, the greatest care in arranging her hair and the details of her toilette.Never had she been more beautiful.Her mode of life since she came abroad with Palmer, the thoughts that had been filling her brain and giving direction to her life since she accepted Brent as her guide and Brent's plans as her career, had combined to give her air of distinction the touch of the extraordinary--the touch that characterizes the comparatively few human beings who live the life above and apart from that of the common run--the life illuminated by imagination.At a glance one sees that they are not of the eaters, drinkers, sleepers, and seekers after the shallow easy pleasures money provides ready-made.They shine by their own light; the rest of mankind shines either by light reflected from them or not at all.

Looking at her that evening as she came into the comfortable, old-fashioned English room, with its somewhat heavy but undeniably dignified furniture and draperies, the least observant could not have said that she was in gala attire because she was in gala mood.Beneath the calm of her surface expression lay something widely different.Her face, slim and therefore almost beyond the reach of the attacks of time and worry, was of the type to which a haggard expression is becoming.Her eyes, large and dreamy, seemed to be seeing visions of unutterable sadness, and the scarlet streak of her mouth seemed to emphasize their pathos.She looked young, very young; yet there was also upon her features the stamp of experience, the experience of suffering.She did not notice the two by the fire, but went to the piano at the far end of the room and stood gazing out into the lovely twilight of the garden.

Freddie, who saw only the costume, said in an undertone to Clelie, "What sort of freak is this?"Said Madame Deliere: "An uncle of mine lost his wife.They were young and he loved her to distraction.Between her death and the funeral he scandalized everybody by talking incessantly of the most trivial details--the cards, the mourning, the flowers, his own clothes.But the night of the funeral he killed himself."Palmer winced as if Clelie had struck him.Then an expression of terror, of fear, came into his eyes."You don't think she'd do that?" he muttered hoarsely.

"Certainly not," replied the young Frenchwoman."I was simply trying to explain her.She dressed because she was unconscious of what she was doing.Real sorrow doesn't think about appearances." Then with quick tact she added: "Why should she kill herself? Monsieur Brent is getting well.

Also, while she's a devoted friend of his, she doesn't love him, but you.""I'm all upset," said Palmer, in confused apology.

He gazed fixedly at Susan--a straight, slim figure with the carriage and the poise of head that indicate self-confidence and pride.As he gazed Madame Clelie watched him with fascinated eyes.It was both thrilling and terrifying to see such love as he was revealing--a love more dangerous than hate.Palmer noted that he was observed, abruptly turned to face the fire.

A servant opened the doors into the dining-room, Madame Deliere rose."Come, Susan," said she.

Susan looked at her with unseeing eyes.

"Dinner is served."

"I do not care for dinner," said Susan, seating herself at the piano.

"Oh, but you----"

"Let her alone," said Freddie, curtly."You and I will go in."Susan, alone, dropped listless hands into her lap.How long she sat there motionless and with mind a blank she did not know.She was aroused by a sound in the hall--in the direction of the outer door of their apartment.She started up, instantly all alive and alert, and glided swiftly in the direction of the sound.A servant met her at the threshold.

He had a cablegram on a tray.

"For Mr.Palmer," said he.

But she, not hearing, took the envelope and tore it open.At a sweep her eyes took in the unevenly typewritten words:

Brent died at half past two this afternoon.

GARVEY.

She gazed wonderingly at the servant, reread the cablegram.

The servant said: "Shall I take it to Mr.Palmer, ma'am?""No.That is all, thanks," replied she.