After her own happy marriage, my sister Sally's one concern was to see me enjoying a happy married life, shared with a woman of depth and understanding. At one of her parties she said to me, "Now I am going to introduce you to one of them. She is different from the ones you know." My objection was of no use, for it came too late...

— "Robert, this is Rosamund Lennox." She paused a little, then went on: "Mrs. Rosamund Lennox."

It was not Sally's disregard of my wishes that astonished me — it was not her habit to waste my time on her married acquaintances — so much as Rosamund herself. She was beautiful; beautiful and distinguished.

"I am glad to meet you, Mr. Linden. I have just finished reading your latest book, and I admired it. When Sally told me you were coming, I asked her to introduce me to you." And she smiled a smile that did not erase the sadness from her eyes.

— I hope this does not annoy you.

— On the contrary! You flatter me! It is rare for an author to meet his reader. I wish I could have you to myself, in some quiet corner, and we could go through the book chapter by chapter.

— Now you are mocking me.

— I swear to you I am not mocking you, and I shall prove it. Come — Sally will not mind.

At that moment I remembered that she was a wife, and that her husband might reasonably be somewhere among the laughing crowd.

— I hope so. Let us find Sally

and say good-bye to her. And she smiled into my eyes; but I found in them no attempt at allurement, and I wondered.

When we had settled ourselves, I heard one of the women say: "Rosamund Lennox, the famous model." I repeated the words in her hearing, and she laughed.

— In my profession, sounds and pictures have keen ears and eyes.

The sight of her black head thrown back, her white neck, and the ring of her laughter will stay with me until memory itself dies.

Now you know who I am. Let us go back to your book. My book was about a ballet dancer, so we talked of the ballet — and suddenly she stood up, saying:

— And now I must go, Mr. Linden.

— "Robert," I interrupted her.

— I told the woman watching over my little girl that I would be home at nine.

— I will take you home, I said, wondering at the eagerness I felt. She was not only a wife but a mother too:

— Thank you, Robert!

* * *

She sat in the taxi quiet and remote, and I sat in my corner watching her face by the light of the lamps in the street. In her eyes

were bewildered tears that would not fall.

— Here we are. Do come in, and

I will bring you some coffee. She got out, and I followed her after paying the driver his fare. We had scarcely climbed the few steps when a door opened and a lady in a dark dress appeared. Rosamund asked her:

— Did Amanda tire you?

— Not one sound out of the lamb. She is asleep. Good evening — until tomorrow.

When the door closed behind her I turned to Rosamund. She was no longer weeping, but her black eyes shone in her wan face, and the depths of the silent sorrow in her shook me.

We went into the drawing room, and she seated me by the fireplace, excusing herself for a moment while she made the coffee.

The room was sumptuous and elegant — like her, and with the very same composure. But something was missing. I mean that small disorder which a man creates.

When she came back, the question was: — Tell me, Rosamund, what happened to your husband?

Quite deliberately she set her coffee cup on the table and answered:

— I killed him!

Here my heart missed a beat, then began pounding again — violently.

— I do not believe you!

When she did not answer I repeated: I do not believe you. She turned her face away from me and spoke, staring into the fire. Then I felt that something of that composure was melting. She was a woman of courage and pride, bearing the failure of another.

— Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I did not kill him — but inside me is the clamor of a criminal!

She was silent a moment, then went on:

He ended his life himself. I