So it was that, with Carnac elected and
Barode Barouche buried, she sat with one of Disraeli's novels in her hand
busy with the future. She saw for Carnac a safe career, for his two
chief foes were gone--Luzanne Larue and Barode Barouche. Now she
understood why Carnac had never asked her to be his wife. She had had no
word with Carnac since his election--only a letter to thank her for the
marriage certificate and to say that after M. Barouche was buried he
would come to her, if he might. He did say, however, in the letter that
he owed her his election.
"You've done a great, big thing for me, dearest friend, and I am your
ever grateful Carnac"--that was the way he had put it. Twice she had
gone to visit his mother, and had been told that Mrs. Grier was too ill
to see her--overstrain, the servant had said. She could not understand
being denied admittance; but it did not matter, for one day Mrs. Grier
should know how she--Junia-had saved her son's career.
So she thought, as she gazed before her into space from the chintz-
covered lounge on the night of the day Barode Barouche was buried. There
was a smell of roses in the room. She had gathered many of them that
afternoon. She caught a bud from a bunch on a table, and fastened it in
the bosom of her dress. Somehow, as she did it, she had a feeling she
would like to clasp a man's head to her breast where the rose was--one
of those wild thoughts that come to the sanest woman at times.
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