"'Facilis descensus,' and the rest of it," she murmured. "That, I suppose, is the truest of the maxims; it stands the wear of time better than any of the rest of them. Well, I have the mournful satisfaction of knowing that I have sufficient intelligence, at any rate, not to blame anybody but myself."
Then she rang for her maid.
"Pack in the morning, Heloise," she said when the maid appeared. "Begin early. Get one of the housemaids to help you. Pack everything—all of your own things, too. We shall be leaving before noon."
"Everything, madame?" inquired Heloise, her eyes widening, "Winter costumes—everything?"
"Everything," repeated Mrs. Treharne. "I am not to return here."
Heloise nodded with a sage acquiescence, and began to take down her mistress's hair.
"Where do we go tomorrow, madame?" Heloise asked when she had finished her task and Mrs. Treharne was in readiness for retiring.
"I haven't the least idea, Heloise," replied Mrs. Treharne, gesturing her unconcern. "I shall decide between now and morning. To the mountains, I suppose—the Adirondacks, probably. I am not very well—New York stifles me. The mountains, I think it shall be, Heloise."
"Madame feels badly?" inquired Heloise, solicitously. "One has noticed that madame is distraite, grows thin, looks unlike herself."
"Sometimes I wish I were anybody but myself, Heloise," said Mrs. Treharne, enigmatically enough, considering her audience. "Goodnight."