and pacific. It was schooled to composure, because it gave advantage in
life's intercourse, not from any inner urbanity.

"Some need many friends, some but a few. I come from a country where one
only needs a few."

"Where is your country, I wonder?" said the cold echo of another voice.

Charley had passed out of Kathleen's life--he was dead to her, his memory
scorned and buried. She loved the man to whom she supposed she was
married; she was only too glad to let the dust of death and time cover
every trace of Charley from her gaze; she would have rooted out every
particle of association: yet his influence on her had been so great that
she had unconsciously absorbed some of his idiosyncrasies--in the tone of
his voice, in his manner of speaking. To-day she had even repeated
phrases he had used.

"Beyond the hills," said Rosalie, turning away.

"Is it not strange?" said the voice. "That is the title of one of the
books I have just brought--'Beyond the Hills'. It is by an English
writer. This other book is French. May I leave them?"

Rosalie inclined her head. It would. make her own position less
dignified if she refused them. "Books are always welcome to my father,"
she said.

There was an instant's pause, as though the fashionable lady would offer
her hand; but their eyes met, and they only bowed. The lady moved on
with a smile, leaving a perfume of heliotrope behind her.