The first of Madame von Marwitz’s great concerts was given on Friday, and Karen spent the whole of that day and of Saturday with her, summoned by an urgent telephone message early in the morning. On Sunday she was still secluded in her rooms, and Miss Scrotton, breaking in determinedly upon her, found her lying prone upon the sofa, Karen beside her.

“I cannot see you, my Scrotton,” said Madame von Marwitz, with kindly yet listless decision. “Did they not tell you below that I was seeing nobody? Karen is with me to watch over my ill-temper. She is a soothing little milk-poultice and I can bear nothing else. I am worn out.”

Before poor Miss Scrotton’s brow of gloom Karen suggested that she should herself go down to Mrs. Forrester for tea and leave her place to Miss Scrotton, but, with a weary shake of the head, Madame von Marwitz rejected the proposal. “No; Scrotton is too intelligent for me to-day,” she said. “You will go down to Mrs. Forrester for your tea, my Scrotton, and wait for another day to see me.”

Miss Scrotton went down nearly in tears.

“She refused to see Sir Alliston,” Mrs. Forrester said, soothingly. “She really is fit for nothing. I have never seen her so exhausted.”

“Yet Karen Jardine always manages to force her way in,” said Miss Scrotton, controlling the tears with difficulty. “She has absolutely taken possession of Mercedes. It really is almost absurd, such devotion, and in a married woman. Gregory doesn’t like it at all. Oh, I know it. Betty Jardine gave me a hint only yesterday of how matters stand.”

“Lady Jardine has always seemed to me a rather trivial little person. I should not accept her impression of a situation,” said Mrs. Forrester. “Mercedes sends for Karen constantly. And I am sure that Gregory is glad to think that she can be of use to Mercedes.”

“Oh, Betty Jardine thinks, too, that it is Mercedes who takes Karen from her husband. But I really can’t agree with her, or with you, dear Mrs. Forrester, there. Mercedes is simply too indolent and kind-hearted to defend herself from the sort of habit the girl has imposed upon her. As for Gregory being grateful I can only assure you that you are entirely mistaken. My own impression is that he is beginning to dislike Mercedes. Oh, he is a very jealous temperament; I have always felt it in him. He is one of those cold, passionate men who become the most infatuated and tyrannical of husbands.”

“My dear Eleanor,” Mrs. Forrester raised her eyebrows. “I see no sign of tyranny. He allows Karen to come here constantly.”

“Yes; because he knows that to refuse would be to endanger his relation to her. Mercedes is angelic to him of course, and doesn’t give him a chance for making things difficult for Karen. But it is quite obvious to me that he hates the whole situation.”

“I hope not,” said Mrs. Forrester, gravely now. “I hope not. It would be tragical indeed if this last close relation in Mercedes’s life were to be spoiled for her. I could not forgive Gregory if he made it difficult in any way for Karen to be with her guardian.”

“Well, as long as he can conceal his jealousy, Mercedes will manage, I suppose, to keep things smooth. But I can’t see it as you do, Mrs. Forrester. I can’t believe for a moment that Mercedes needs Karen or that the tie is such a close one. She only likes to see her now because she is bored and impatient and unhappy, and Karen is she said it just now, before the girl a poultice for her nerves. And the reason for her nerves isn’t far to seek. I must be frank with you, dear Mrs. Forrester; you know I always have been, and I’m distressed, deeply distressed about Mercedes. She expected Claude Drew to be back from America by now and I heard yesterday from that horrid young friend of his, Algernon Bently, that he has again postponed his return. It’s that that agonizes and infuriates Mercedes, it’s that that makes her unwilling to be alone with me. I’ve seen too much; I know too much; she fears me, Mrs. Forrester. She knows that I know that Claude Drew is punishing her now for having snubbed him in America.”

“My dear Eleanor,” Mrs. Forrester murmured distressfully. “You exaggerate that young man’s significance.”

“Dear Mrs. Forrester,” Miss Scrotton returned, almost now with a solemn exasperation, “I wish it were possible to exaggerate it. I watched it grow. His very effrontery fascinates her. We know, you and I, what Mercedes expects in devotion from a man who cares for her. They must adore her on their knees. Now Mr. Drew adored standing nonchalantly on his feet and looking coolly into her eyes. She resented it; she had constantly to put him in his place. But she would rather have him out of his place than not have him there at all. That is what she is feeling now. That is why she is so worn out. She is wishing that Claude Drew would come back from America, and she is wanting to write one letter to his ten and finding that she writes five. He writes to her constantly, I suppose?”

“I believe he does,” Mrs. Forrester conceded. “Mercedes is quite open about the frequency of his letters. I am sure that you exaggerate, Eleanor. He interests her, and he charms her if you will. Like every woman, she is aware of devotion and pleased by it. I don’t believe it’s anything more.”

“I believe,” said Miss Scrotton, after a moment, and with resolution, “that it’s a great passion; the last great passion of her life.”

“Oh, my dear!”

“A great passion,” Miss Scrotton persisted, “and for a man whom she knows not to be in any way her equal. It is that that exasperates her.”

Mrs. Forrester meditated for a little while and then, owning to a certain mutual recognition of facts, she said: “I don’t believe that it’s a great passion; but I think that a woman like Mercedes, a genius of that scope, needs always to feel in her life the elements of a ’situation’ and life always provides such women with a choice of situations. They are stimulants. Mr. Drew and his like, with whatever unrest and emotion they may cause her, nourish her art. Even a great passion would be a tempest that filled her sails and drove her on; in the midst of it she would never lose the power of steering. She has essentially the strength and detachment of genius. She watches her own emotions and makes use of them. Did you ever hear her play more magnificently than on Friday? If Mr. Drew y était pour quelque chose, it was in the sense that she made mincemeat of him and presented us in consequence with a magnificent sausage.”

Miss Scrotton, who had somewhat forgotten her personal grievance in the exhilaration of these analyses, granted the sausage and granted that Mercedes made mincemeat of Mr. Drew and of her friends into the bargain. “But my contention and my fear is,” she said, “that he will make mincemeat of her before he is done with her.”

Miss Scrotton did not rank highly for wisdom in Mrs. Forrester’s estimation; but for her perspicacity and intelligence she had more regard than she cared to admit. Echoes of Eleanor’s distrusts and fears remained with her, and, though it was but a minor one, such an echo vibrated loudly on Monday afternoon when Betty Jardine appeared at tea-time with Karen.

It was the afternoon that Karen had promised to Betty, and when this fact had been made known to Tante it was no grievance and no protest that she showed, only a slight hesitation, a slight gravity, and then, as if with cheerful courage in the face of an old sadness: “Eh bien,” she said. “Bring her back here to tea, ma chérie. So I shall come to know this new friend of my Karen’s better.”

Betty was not at all pleased at being brought back to tea. But Karen asked her so gravely and prettily and said so urgently that Tante wanted especially to know her better, and asked, moreover, if Betty would let her come to lunch with her instead of tea, so that they should have their full time together, that Betty once more pocketed her suspicions of a design on Madame von Marwitz’s part. The suspicion was there, however, in her pocket, and she kept her hand on it rather as if it were a small but efficacious pistol which she carried about in case of an emergency. Betty was one who could aim steadily and shoot straight when occasion demanded. It was a latent antagonist who entered Mrs. Forrester’s drawing-room on that Monday afternoon, Karen, all guileless, following after. Mrs. Forrester and the Baroness were alone and, in a deep Chesterfield near the tea-table, Madame von Marwitz leaned an arm, bared to the elbow, in cushions and rested a meditative head on her hand. She half rose to greet Betty. “This is kind of you, Lady Jardine,” she said. “I feared that I had lost my Karen for the afternoon. Elle me manque toujours; she knows that.” Smiling up at Karen she drew her down beside her, studying her with eyes of fond, maternal solicitude. “My child looks well, does she not, Mrs. Forrester? And the pretty hat! I am glad not to see the foolish green one.”

“Oh, I like the green one very much, Tante,” said Karen. “But you shall not see it again.”

“I hope I’m to see it again,” said Betty, turning over her pistol. “I chose it, you know.”

Madame von Marwitz turned startled eyes upon her. “Ah but I did not know. Did you tell me this, Karen?” the eyes of distress now turned to Karen. “Have I forgotten? Was the green hat, the little green hat with the wing, indeed of Lady Jardine’s choosing? Have I been so very rude?”

“Betty will understand, Tante,” said Karen while Mrs. Forrester, softly chinking among her blue Worcester teacups, kept a cogitating eye on Betty Jardine “that I have so many new hats now that you must easily forget which is which.”

“All I ask,” said Betty, laughing over her mishap, “is that I, sometimes, may see Karen in the green hat, for I think it charming.”

“Indeed, Betty, so do I,” said Karen, smiling.

“And I must be forgiven for not liking the green hat,” Madame von Marwitz returned.

Betty and Karen were supplied with tea, and after they had selected their cakes, and a few inconsequent remarks had been exchanged, Madame von Marwitz said:

“And now, my Karen, I have a little plan to tell you of; a little treat that I have arranged for you. We are to go together, on this next Saturday, to stay at Thole Castle with my friends the Duke and Duchess of Bannister. I have told them that I wish to bring my child.”

“But how delightful, Tante. It is to be in the country? We shall be there, you and I and Gregory, till Monday?”

“I thought that I should please you. Yes; till Monday. And in beautiful country. But it is to be our own small treat; yours and mine. Your husband will lend you to me for those two days.” Holding the girl’s hand Madame von Marwitz smiled indulgently at her, with eyes only for her. Betty, however, was listening.

“But cannot Gregory come, too, Tante?” Karen questioned, her pleasure dashed.

“These friends of mine, my Karen,” said Madame von Marwitz, “have heard of you as mine only. It is as my child that you will come with me; just as it is as your husband’s wife that you see his friends. That is quite clear, quite happy, quite understood.”

Karen’s eyes now turned on Betty. They did not seek counsel, they asked no question of Betty; but they gave her, in their slight bewilderment, her opportunity.

“But Karen, I think you are right,” so she took up the gage that Madame von Marwitz had flung. “I don’t think that you must accept this invitation without, at least, consulting Gregory.”

Madame von Marwitz did not look at her. She continued to gaze as serenely at Karen as though Betty were a dog that had barked irrelevantly from the hearth-rug. But Karen fixed widened eyes upon her.

“I do not need to consult Gregory, Betty,” she said. “We have, I know, no engagements for this Saturday to Monday, and he will be delighted for me that I am to go with Tante.”

“That may be, my dear,” Betty returned with a manner as imperturbable as Madame von Marwitz’s; “but I think that you should give him an opportunity of saying so. He may not care for his wife to go to strangers without him.”

“They are not strangers. They are friends of Tante’s.”

“Gregory may not care for you to make as Madame von Marwitz suggests a different set of friends from his own.”

“If they become my friends they will become his,” said Karen.

During this little altercation, Madame von Marwitz, large and white, her profile turned to Betty, sat holding Karen’s hand and gazing at her with an almost slumbrous melancholy.

Mrs. Forrester, controlling her displeasure with some difficulty, interposed. “I don’t think Lady Jardine really quite understands the position, Karen,” she said. “It isn’t the normal one, Lady Jardine. Madame von Marwitz stands, really, to Karen in a mother’s place.”

“Oh, but I can’t agree with you, Mrs. Forrester,” Betty replied. “Madame von Marwitz doesn’t strike me as being in the least like Karen’s mother. And she isn’t Karen’s mother. And Karen’s husband, now, should certainly stand first in her life.”

A silence followed the sharp report. Mrs. Forrester’s and Karen’s eyes had turned on the Baroness who sat still, as though her breast had received the shot. With tragic eyes she gazed out above Karen’s head; then: “It is true,” she said in a low voice, as though communing with herself; “I am indeed alone.” She rose. With the slow step of a Niobe she moved down the room and disappeared.

“I do not forgive you for this, Betty,” said Karen, following her guardian. Betty, like a naughty school-girl, was left confronting Mrs. Forrester across the tea-table.

“Lady Jardine,” said the old lady, fixing her bright eyes on her guest, “I don’t think you can have realised what you were saying. Madame von Marwitz’s isolation is one of the many tragedies of her life, and you have made it clear to her.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Betty. “But I feel what Madame von Marwitz is doing to be so mistaken, so wrong.”

“These formalities don’t obtain nowadays, especially if a wife is so singularly related to a woman like Madame von Marwitz. And Mercedes is quite above all such little consciousnesses, I assure you. She is not aware of sets, in that petty way. It is merely a treat she is giving the child, for she knows how much Karen loves to be with her. And it is only in her train that Karen goes.”

“Precisely.” Betty had risen and stood smoothing her muff and not feigning to smile. “In her train. I don’t think that Gregory’s wife should go in anybody’s train.”

“It was markedly in Mercedes’s train that he found her.”

“All the more reason for wishing now to withdraw her from it. Karen has become something more than Madame von Marwitz’s panache.”

Mrs. Forrester at this fixed Betty very hard and echoes of Miss Scrotton rang loudly. “You must let me warn you, Lady Jardine,” she said, “that you are making a position, difficult already for Mercedes, more difficult still. It would be a grievous thing if Karen were to recognize her husband’s jealousy. I’m afraid I can’t avoid seeing what you have made so plain to-day, that Gregory is trying to undermine Karen’s relation to her guardian.”

At this Betty had actually to laugh. “But don’t you see that it is simply the other way round?” she said. “It is Madame von Marwitz who is trying to undermine Karen’s relation to Gregory. It is she who is jealous. It’s that I can’t avoid seeing.”

“I don’t think we have anything to gain by continuing this conversation,” Mrs. Forrester replied. “May I give you some more tea before you go?”

“No, thanks. Is Karen coming with me, I wonder? We had arranged that I was to take her home.”

Mrs. Forrester rang the bell and she and Betty stood in an uneasy silence until the man returned to say that Mrs. Jardine was to spend the evening with Madame von Marwitz who had suddenly been taken very ill.

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” Mrs. Forrester almost moaned. “This means one of her terrible headaches and we were to have dined out. I must telephone excuses at once.”

“I wish I hadn’t had to make you think me such a pig,” said Betty.

“I don’t think you a pig,” said Mrs. Forrester, “but I do think you a very mistaken and a very unwise woman. And I do beg you, for Gregory and for Karen’s sake, to be careful what you do.”