That night in Paris I saw on the bills ‘Fatal Motor Accidents. She went to her room and changed the loose morning gown in which she had lunched for a dark walking dress. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. In this state of knowledge you will be horribly, irrevocably, alone. We want to celebrate, and we want you to help us. It was equally as beautiful but not quite so fine as the daughter's. I think we rest here until to-morrow?” There was a brief silence. She saw herself building up a life upon that —a life restrained, kindly, beautiful, a little pathetic and altogether dignified; a life of great disciplines and suppressions and extensive reserves. Twelve years, then, have elapsed since the date of the occurrences detailed in the preceding division of this history. If she returns to the house from which we took her, her companions will laugh at her and smother her with ridicule. If they hadn't sent for me, you'd have pegged out before morning. The theme was a masquerade.
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