Montague came home with his mind made up that there was nothing he could do except to be more careful next time. For this mistake he would have to pay the price.  
He had still to learn what the full price was. The day after his return there came a caller—Mr. John C. Burton, read his card. He proved to be a canvassing agent for the company which published the scandal-sheet of Society. They were preparing a de luxe account of the prominent families of New York; a very sumptuous affair, with a highly exclusive set of subscribers, at the rate of fifteen hundred dollars per set. Would Mr. Montague by any chance care to have his family included?
 
And Mr. Montague explained politely that he was a comparative stranger in New York, and would not belong properly in such a volume. But the agent was not satisfied with this. There might be reasons for his subscribing, even so; there might be special cases; Mr. Montague, as a stranger, might not realize the important nature of the offer; after he had consulted his friends, he might change his mind—and so on. As Montague listened to this series of broad hints, and took in the meaning of them, the colour mounted, to his cheeks—until at last he rose abruptly and bid the man good afternoon.
 
But then as he sat alone, his anger died away, and there was left only discomfort and uneasiness. And three or four days later he bought another issue of the paper, and sure enough, there was a new paragraph!
 
He stood on the street-corner reading it. The social war was raging hotly, it said; and added that Mrs. de Graffenried was threatening to take up the cause of the strangers. Then it went on to picture a certain exquisite young man of fashion who was rushing about among his friends to apologize for his brother's indiscretions. Also, it said, there was a brilliant social queen, wife of a great banker, who had taken up the cudgels.—And then came three sentences more, which made the blood leap like flame into Montague's cheeks:
 
"There have not been lacking comments upon her suspicious ardour. It has been noticed that since the advent of the romantic-looking Southerner, this restless lady's interest in the Babists and the trance mediums has waned; and now Society is watching for the denouement of a most interesting situation."
 
To Montague these words came like a blow in the face. He went on down the street, half dazed. It seemed to him the blackest shame that New York had yet shown him. He clenched his fists as he walked, whispering to himself, "The scoundrels!"
 
He realized instantly that he was helpless. Down home one would have thrashed the editor of such a paper; but here he was in the wolves' own country, and he could do nothing. He went back to his office, and sat down at the desk.
 
"My dear Mrs. Winnie," he wrote. "I have just read the enclosed paragraph, and I cannot tell you how profoundly pained I am that your kindness to us should have made you the victim of such an outrage. I am quite helpless in the matter, except to enable you to avoid any further annoyance. Please believe me when I say that we shall all of us understand perfectly if you think that we had best not meet again at present; and that this will make no difference whatever in our feelings."
 
This letter Montague sent by a messenger; and then he went home. Perhaps ten minutes after he arrived, the telephone bell rang—and there was Mrs. Winnie.
 
"Your note has come," she said. "Have you an engagement this evening?"
 
"No," he answered.
 
"Well," she said, "will you come to dinner?"
 
"Mrs. Winnie—" he protested.
 
"Please come," she said. "Please!"
 
"I hate to have you—" he began.
 
"I wish you to come!" she said, a third time.
 
So he answered, "Very well."
 
He went; and when he entered the house, the butler led him to the elevator, saying, "Mrs. Duval says will you please come upstairs, sir." And there Mrs. Winnie met him, with flushed cheeks and eager countenance.
 
She was even lovelier than usual, in a soft cream-coloured gown, and a crimson rose in her bosom. "I'm all alone to-night," she said, "so we'll dine in my apartments. We'd be lost in that big room downstairs."
 
She led him into her drawing-room, where great armfuls of new roses scattered their perfume. There was a table set for two, and two big chairs before the fire which blazed in the hearth. Montague noticed that her hand trembled a little, as she motioned him to one of them; he could read her excitement in her whole aspect. She was flinging down the gauntlet to her enemies!
 
"Let us eat first and talk afterward," she said, hurriedly. "We'll be happy for a while, anyway."
 
And she went on to be happy, in her nervous and eager way. She talked about the new opera which was to be given, and about Mrs. de Graffenried's new entertainment, and about Mrs. Ridgley-Clieveden's ball; also about the hospital for crippled children which she wanted to build, and about Mrs. Vivie Patton's rumoured divorce. And, meantime, the sphinx-like attendants moved here and there, and the dinner came and went. They took their coffee in the big chairs by the fire; and the table was swept clear, and the servants vanished, closing the doors behind them.
 
Then Montague set his cup aside, and sat gazing sombrely into the fire. And Mrs. Winnie watched him. There was a long silence.
 
Suddenly he heard her voice. "Do you find it so easy to give up our friendship?" she asked.
 
"I didn't think about it's being easy or hard," he answered. "I simply thought of protecting you."
 
"And do you think that my friends are nothing to me?" she demanded. "Have I so very many as that?" And she clenched her hands with a sudden passionate gesture. "Do you think that I will let those wretches frighten me into doing what they want? I'll not give in to them—not for anything that Lelia can do!"
 
A look of perplexity crossed Montague's face. "Lelia?" he asked.
 
"Mrs. Robbie Walling!" she cried. "Don't you suppose that she is responsible for that paragraph?"
 
Montague started.
 
"That's the way they fight their battles!" cried Mrs. Winnie. "They pay money to those scoundrels to be protected. And then they send nasty gossip about people they wish to injure."
 
"You don't mean that!" exclaimed the man.
 
"Of course I do," cried she. "I know that it's true! I know that Robbie Walling paid fifteen thousand dollars for some trumpery volumes that they got out! And how do you suppose the paper gets its gossip?"
 
"I didn't know," said Montague. "But I never dreamed—"
 
"Why," exclaimed Mrs. Winnie, "their mail is full of blue and gold monogram stationery! I've known guests to sit down and write gossip about their hostesses in their own homes. Oh, you've no idea of people's vileness!"
 
"I had some idea," said Montague, after a pause.—"That was why I wished to protect you."
 
"I don't wish to be protected!" she cried, vehemently. "I'll not give them the satisfaction. They wish to make me give you up, and I'll not do it, for anything they can say!"
 
Montague sat with knitted brows, gazing into the fire. "When I read that paragraph," he said slowly. "I could not bear to think of the unhappiness it might cause you. I thought of how much it might disturb your husband—"
 
"My husband!" echoed Mrs. Winnie.
 
There was a hard tone in her voice, as she went on. "He will fix it up with them," she said,—"that's his way. There will be nothing more published, you can feel sure of that."
 
Montague sat in silence. That was not the reply he had expected, and it rather disconcerted him.
 
"If that were all—" he said, with hesitation. "But I could not know. I thought that the paragraph might disturb him for another reason—that it might be a cause of unhappiness between you and him—"
 
There was a pause. "You don't understand," said Mrs. Winnie, at last.
 
Without turning his head he could see her hands, as they lay upon her knees. She was moving them nervously. "You don't understand," she repeated.
 
When she began to' speak again, it was in a low, trembling voice. "I must tell you," she said; "I have felt sure that you did not know."
 
There was another pause. She hesitated, and her hands trembled; then suddenly she hurried on.—"I wanted you to know. I do not love my husband. I am not bound to him. He has nothing to say in my affairs."
 
Montague sat rigid, turned to stone. He was half dazed by the words. He could feel Mrs. Winnie's gaze fixed upon him; and he could feel the hot flush that spread over her throat and cheeks.
 
"It—it was not fair for you not to know," she whispered. And her voice died away, and there was again a silence. Montague was dumb.
 
"Why don't you say something?" she panted, at last; and he caught the note of anguish in her voice. Then he turned and stared at her, and saw her tightly clenched hands, and the quivering of her lips.
 
He was shocked quite beyond speech. And he saw her bosom heaving quickly, and saw the tears start into her eyes. Suddenly she sank down, and covered her face with her hands and broke into frantic sobbing.
 
"Mrs. Winnie!" he cried; and started to his feet.
 
Her outburst continued. He saw that she was shuddering violently. "Then you don't love me!" she wailed.
 
He stood trembling and utterly bewildered. "I'm so sorry!" he whispered. "Oh, Mrs. Winnie—I had no idea—"
 
"I know it! I know it!" she cried. "It's my fault! I was a fool! I knew it all the time. But I hoped—I thought you might, if you knew—"
 
And then again her tears choked her; she was convulsed with pain and grief.
 
Montague stood watching her, helpless with distress. She caught hold of the arm of the chair, convulsively, and he put his hand upon hers.
 
"Mrs. Winnie—" he began.
 
But she jerked her hand away and hid it. "No, no!" she cried, in terror. "Don't touch me!"
 
And suddenly she looked up at him, stretching out her arms. "Don't you understand that I love you?" she exclaimed. "You despise me for it, I know—but I can't help it. I will tell you, even so! It's the only satisfaction I can have. I have always loved you! And I thought—I thought it was only that you didn't understand. I was ready to brave all the world—I didn't care who knew it, or what anybody said. I thought we could be happy—I thought I could be free at last. Oh, you've no idea how unhappy I am—and how lonely—and how I longed to escape! And I believed that you—that you might—"
 
And then the tears gushed into Mrs. Winnie's eyes again, and her voice became the voice of a little child.
 
"Don't you think that you might come to love me?" she wailed.
 
Her voice shook Montague, so that he trembled to the depths of him. But his face only became the more grave.
 
"You despise me because I told you!" she exclaimed.
 
"No, no, Mrs. Winnie," he said. "I could not possibly do that—"
 
"Then—then why—" she whispered.—"Would it be so hard to love me?"
 
"It would be very easy," he said, "but I dare not let myself."
 
She looked at him piteously. "You are so cold—so merciless!" she cried.
 
He answered nothing, and she sat trembling. "Have you ever loved a woman?" she asked.
 
There was a long pause. He sat in the chair again. "Listen, Mrs. Winnie"—he began at last.
 
"Don't call m............