It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. “My sister and I,” she said slowly, “have seen very little of each other lately. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe. “Go on!” “You know—in Paris they coupled my name with some one’s—an Englishman’s. “Oh, it is okay. She wore a black satin dress, a little shiny at the seams, a purposeless bow of white tulle at the back of her neck, and a huge chatelaine. Her whole face stiffened with suppressed anger. I have always had a secret crush on him, to be honest with you. They said no more for a moment, and each was now acutely aware of the other. What!—add another drop to her cup? Who knows? Any day they may find me. He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman. "Do you mean to say that if I support your kid, I shan't bring him up how I please—eh?" "Don't question me, but leave me," replied the widow wildly; "you had better. They sat in the front row.
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