Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered. But there was no feeling of remorse; there was only the sensation of exaltation. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. Whenever she came upon the obliterated word and paused, her father would say: "Faith. “You are a dear,” she exclaimed affectionately.
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