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“You cannot complain of my early rising,” laughed Eleanor, glancing at the clock, whose hands pointed to a quarter to twelve.

“Ah, Mademoiselle, you have lived so long away from America that you have acquired our habits.”

“You may take the tray, Annette; I have even less appetite than usual to-day.” Eleanor waited until it had been removed, then sprang out of bed. “Come back in fifteen minutes,” she called.

It did not take her long to complete her toilette, and when the maid returned she was seated before her dressing table.

“What news to-day, Annette?” she asked, as the Frenchwoman, with skilful fingers, arranged her wavy hair, which fell far below her waist.

“Madame and Fugi——” began the maid.

“I don’t want household details,” broke in Eleanor impatiently. “Tell me of some outside news, if there is any.”

“Oh, indeed, yes; news the most startling. Senator Carew——” she paused to contemplate her handiwork.

“Well, what about him?” inquired Eleanor listlessly.

“He is dead.”

“Dead!” The handglass slipped from Eleanor’s grasp and fell crashing to the hearth. Annette pounced upon it.