the deep, still, intense blueness of our lake, mirroring the blueness of the morning sky. I suppose in that rapt moment—I haven't seen her look more purely poetic in years—she was deciding whether it was her duty to tell me a loyal lie or whether she might relax and tell the simple truth. As she was in one of her rare moments of languor, she decided for the truth.
"I am vexed with Oliver. I sent him back to town on Saturday. I told him that I didn't wish to see him again this summer."
"Why, Cornelia!" I cried, "What in the world has Oliver done? Is it proper for me to hear? Has he been flirting with his secretary? Or has he been beating you? Or what?"
"He has been beating me." Cornelia dabbed at the corner of one eye with her handkerchief; and I imagine there may have been some occasion for it, though I did not see it. She held her lower lip for an instant compressed under her perfect teeth. I noticed these things because in twenty years' acquaintance I had never witnessed them before—but once, and that was in the dark backward and abysm of time. Then she smiled faintly and repeated:—
"Yes, he has beaten me. Dreadfully."
"The monster! What have you done to merit
