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Jane, who was calmly eating soup–she was the only woman I had ever seen who could eat soup and look like a goddess at the same time–glanced around and caught me studying her profile. I thought she blushed slightly and I raged inwardly to think that blush was meant for Clark Oliver–Clark Oliver who had told me he thought Jane was smitten on him! Jane! On him!

“Do you know, Mr. Oliver,” said Jane slowly, “that you are startlingly like a–a person I used to know? When I first saw you the other night I took you for him.”

A person you used to know! Oh, Jane, that was the most unkindest cut of all.

“My cousin, Elliott Cameron, I suppose?” I answered as indifferently as I could. “We resemble each other very closely. You were acquainted with Cameron, Miss Harvey?”

“Slightly,” said Jane.

“A fine fellow,” I said unblushingly.

“A-h,” said Jane.

“My favorite relative,” I went on brazenly. “He’s a thoroughly good sort–rather dull now to what he used to be, though. He had an unfortunate love affair two years ago and has never got over it.”

“Indeed?” said Jane coldly, crumbling a bit of bread between her fingers. Her face was expressionless and her voice ditto; but I had heard her criticize nervous people who did things like that at table.

“I fear poor Elliott’s life has been completely spoiled,” I said, with a sigh. “It’s a shame.”

“Did he confide the affair to you?” asked Jane, a little scornfully.

“Well, after a fashion. He said enough for me to guess the rest. He never told me the lady’s name. She was very beautiful, I understand, and very heartless. Oh, she used him very badly.”

“Did he tell you that, too?” asked Jane.

“Not he. He won’t listen to a word against her. But a chap can draw his own conclusions, you know.”

“What went wrong between them?” asked Jane. She smiled at a lady across the table, as if she were merely asking questions to make conversation, but she went on crumbling bread.

“Simply a very stiff quarrel, I believe. Elliott never went into details. The lady was flirting with somebody else, I fancy.”

“People have such different ideas about flirting,” said Jane, languidly. “What one would call mere simple friendliness another construes into flirting. Possibly your friend–or is it your cousin?–is one of those men who become insanely jealous over every trifle and attempt to exert authority before they have any to exert. A woman of spirit would hardly fail to resent that.”

“Of course Elliott was jealous,” I admitted. “But then, you know, Miss Harvey, that jealousy is said to be the measure of a man’s love. If he went beyond his rights I am sure he is bitterly sorry for it.”

“Does he really care about her still?” asked Jane, eating most industriously, although somehow the contents of her plate did hot grow noticeably less. As for me, I didn’t pretend to eat. I simply pecked.

“He loves her with all his heart,” I answered fervently. “There never has been and never will be any other woman for Elliott Cameron.”

“Why doesn’t he go and tell her so?” inquired Jane, as if she felt rather bored over the whole subject.

“He doesn’t dare to. She forbade him ever to cross her path again. Told him she hated him and always would hate him as long as she lived.”

“She must have been an unpleasantly emphatic young woman,” commented Jane.

“I’d like to hear anyone say so to Elliott,” I responded. “He considers her perfection. I’m sorry for Elliott. His life is wrecked.”

“Do you know,” said Jane slowly, as if poking about in the recesses of her memory for something half forgotten. “I believe I know the–the girl in question.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yes, she is a friend of mine. She–she never told me his name, but putting two and two together, I believe it must have been your cousin. But she–she thinks she was the one to blame.”