“Yes, that’s the English of it.  But it’s a pity that fashion has got hold of the country, and is turning our summers into a worry and a burden.  I thought years ago when we went to Lenox that it was a good thing the country was getting to be the fashion; but now it’s fashionable, and before we know it every desirable spot will be what they call syndicated.  Miss Tavish says she is coming to visit the Hendersons there.”

“I thought she went to Bar Harbor.”

“But she is coming down for part of the season.  These people don’t stay anywhere.  Just long enough in one place to upset everything with their extravagance.  That’s the reason I didn’t ask you and Jack up this summer.”

“Thank you, we couldn’t go, you know,” said Edith, simply, and then, with curiosity in her eyes, asked; “but I don’t quite understand what’s the reason.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Blunt, as if nerving herself up to say what must be said, “I thought perhaps you wouldn’t like to be where they are.”

“I don’t know why I should or why I should not,” Edith replied.

“Nor have Jack with them,” continued Mrs. Blunt, stoutly.

“What do you mean, Mrs. Blunt?” cried Edith, her brown eyes flaming.

“Don’t turn on me, Edith dear.  I oughtn’t to have said anything.  But I thought it was my duty.  Of course it is only talk.”

“Well?”

“That Jack is always with one or the other of those women.”

“It is false!” cried Edith, starting up, with tears now in her eyes; “it’s a cruel lie if it means anything wrong in Jack.  So am I with those women; so are you.  It’s a shame.  If you hear any one say such things, you can tell them for me that I despise them.”

“I said it was a shame, all such talk.  I said it was nonsense.  But, dear, as a friend, oughtn’t I to tell you?” And the kind-hearted gossip put her arm round Edith, and kept saying that she perfectly understood it, and that nobody really meant anything.  But Edith was crying now, with a heart both hurt and indignant.

“It’s a most hateful world, I know,” Mrs, Blunt answered; “but it’s the best we have, and it’s no use to fret about it.”

When the visitor had gone, Edith sat a long time in misery.  It was the first real shock of her married life.  And in her heart she prayed.  For Jack?  Oh no.  The dear girl prayed for herself, that suspicions might not enter her heart.  She could not endure that the world should talk thus of him.  That was all.  And when she had thought it all over and grown calm, she went to her desk and wrote a note to Carmen.  It asked Mrs. Henderson, as they were so soon to leave town, to do her the favor to come round informally and lunch with her the next day, and afterwards perhaps a little drive in the Park.

X

Jack was grateful for Edith’s intervention.  He comprehended that she had stepped forward as a shield to him in the gossip about Carmen.  He showed his appreciation in certain lover-like attentions and in a gayety of manner, but it was not in his nature to feel the sacrifice she had made or its full magnanimity; he was relieved, and in a manner absolved.  Another sort of woman might have made him very uncomfortable.  Instead of being rebuked he had a new sense of freedom.