The particular sheet ended at this point.

Mrs Gildea laid it down upon the earlier ones and took another from the little pile which she had spread in sequence for perusal.

She smiled to herself in mournful amusement.

For she scarcely questioned the probability that her friend would in due course become disillusioned of a very ordinary individual--he certainly sounded a little like an adventurer--who for some occult reason had been idealised by this great-souled, wayward and utterly foolish creature.

How many shattered idols had not Lady Bridget picked up from beneath their over-turned pedestals and consigned to Memory's dust-bin! On how many pyres had not that oft-widowed soul committed suttee to be resurrected at the next freak of Destiny! And yet with it all, there was something strangely elusive, curiously virginal about Lady Bridget.
She had been in love so often: nevertheless, she had never loved.