isn't written by a woman."

Stella obediently received the first volume, turned over the leaves, and
wearily dropped the wonderful novel on her lap. "I can't attend to it,"
she said. "My mind is too full of my own thoughts."

"About Romayne?" said her mother.

"No. When I think of my husband now, I almost wish I had his confidence
in Priests and Retreats. The conviction grows on me, mama, that my worst
troubles are still to come. When I was younger, I don't remember being
tormented by presentiments of any kind. Did I ever talk of presentiments
to you, in the bygone days?"

"If you had done anything of the sort, my love (excuse me, if I speak
plainly), I should have said, 'Stella, your liver is out of order'; and
I should have opened the family medicine-chest. I will only say now send
for the carriage; let us go to a morning concert, dine at a restaurant,
and finish the evening at the play."

This characteristic proposal was entirely thrown away on Stella. She was
absorbed in pursuing her own train of thought. "I almost wish I had told
Lewis," she said to herself absently.

"Told him of what, my dear?"

"Of what happened to me with Winterfield."

Mrs. Eyrecourt's faded eyes opened wide in astonishment.