Langdon Masters is drinking himself to
death in New York. Jack Belmont returned the other day--he told Mr.
McLane."
She had been interrupted several times, Madeleine for the moment
forgotten.
"Why didn't Alexander Groome know? He's his cousin and bad enough
himself, heaven knows."
"Oh, poor Langdon! Poor Langdon! I knew he could love a woman like
that--"
"He has remarkable powers of concentration!"
"I'll wager Mr. Abbott heard it himself at the Club, the wretch!
He'll hear from me!"
"Oh, it's too awful," wailed Sally again. "What an end to a romance.
It was quite perfect before--in a way. And now instead of pitying
poor Madeleine and wishing we were her--she--which is it?--we'll all
be despising her!"
"It's loathsome," said Mrs. Ballinger. "I wish I had not heard it. I
prefer to believe that such things do not exist."
"Good heavens, mamma, I've heard that gentlemen in the good old
South were as drunk as lords, oftener than not."
"As lords, yes. Langdon Masters is in no position to emulate his
ancestors. And Madeleine! No one ever heard of a lady in the South
taking to drink from disappointed love or anything else. When life
was too hard for them they went into a beautiful decline and died in
the odor of sanctity."
"They get terribly skinny and yellow in the last stages--"
"Sally!"
"Well, I don't care anything about Langdon Masters," announced Mrs.
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