“This is the Prix du Cadran.  It’s the principal race of the afternoon.”

And when that was over, amid cheering that ran about the field like fire through dried bush, she added: 

“I think I ought to go back now.  I told the chauffeur to be here after the Prix du Cadran.  What time is it exactly?”

They sat side by side in the long, open car, facing the chauffeur’s creaseless back.  After passing the Cascade, the car swerved into the Allee de Longchamps which led in an absolutely straight line, two miles long, to the Port Maillot and the city.  Spring decorated the magnificent wooded thoroughfare.  The side-alleys, aisles of an interminable nave, were sprinkled with revellers and lovers and the most respectable families half hidden amid black branches and gleams of tender green.  Automobiles and carriages threaded the main alley at varying speeds.  The number of ancient horse-cabs gradually increased until, after the intersection of the Allee de la Reine Marguerite, they thronged the vast road.  All the humble and shabby genteel people in Paris who could possibly afford a cab seemed to have taken a cab.  Nearly every cab was overloaded.  The sight of this vast pathetic effort of the disinherited towards gaiety and distraction and the mood of spring, intensified the vague sadness in George due to the race-crowd, Lois’s silence, and the lack of news about the competition.

At length Lois said, scowling—­no doubt involuntarily: 

“I think I’d better tell you now.  Irene Wheeler’s committed suicide.  Shot herself.”  She pressed her lips together and looked at the road.

George gave a startled exclamation.  He could not for an instant credit the astounding news.

“But how do you know?  Who told you?”

“The man who spoke to me in the grand stand.  He’s correspondent of The London Courier—­friend of father’s of course.”

George protested: 

“Then why on earth didn’t you tell me before?...  Shot herself!  What for?”

“I didn’t tell you before because I couldn’t.”

All the violence of George’s nature came to the surface as he said brutally: 

“Of course you could!”

“I tell you I couldn’t!” she cried.  “I knew the car wouldn’t be there for us until after the Prix du Cadran.  And if I’d told you I couldn’t have borne to be walking about that place three-quarters of an hour.  We should have had to talk about it.  I couldn’t have borne that.  And so you needn’t be cross, please.”

But her voice did not break, nor her eyes shine.

“I was wondering whether I should tell the chauffeur at once, or let him find it out.”

“I should let him find it out,” said George.  “He doesn’t know that you know.  Besides, it might upset his driving.”

“Oh!  I shouldn’t mind about his driving,” Lois murmured disdainfully.

V