She went up to her room, bidding Maggie good-night in the passage. In a
mechanical way she allowed the deft-handed maid to array her in a
dressing gown--soft, silken, a dainty triumph in its way. Then, almost
impatiently, she sent the maid away when her hair was only half
released. She would brush it herself. She was tired. No, she wanted
nothing more.

She sat down by the fire, brush in hand. She could hardly breathe. It
was coming.

She heard Paul come to his dressing-room. She heard his deep, quiet
voice reply to some question of his valet's. Then the word "Good-night"
in the same quiet voice. The valet had gone. There was only the door now
between her and--what? Her fingers were at the throat of her
dressing-gown. The soft lace seemed to choke her.

Then Paul knocked at the door. It was coming. She opened her lips, but
at first could make no sound.

"Come in!" she said at length hoarsely.

She wondered whether he would kill her. She wondered whether she was in
love with her husband. She had begun wondering that lately; she was
wondering it when he came in. He had changed his dress-coat for a
silk-faced jacket, in which he was in the habit of working with
Steinmetz in the quiet room after the household had gone to bed.

She looked up. She dropped the brush, and ran toward him with a great
rustle of her flowing silks.

"Oh, Paul, what is it?" she cried.

She stopped short, not daring to touch him, before his cold, set face.

"Have you seen any one?" she whispered.

"Only De Chauxville," he answered, "this afternoon."

"Indeed, Paul," she protested hastily, "it was nothing. A message from
Catrina Lanovitch. It was only the usual visit of an acquaintance. It
would have been very strange if he had not called. Do you think I could
care for a man like that?"

"I never did think so until now," returned Paul steadily. "Your excuses
accuse you. You may care for him. I do not know; I--do--not--care."

She turned slowly and went back to her chair.

Mechanically she took up the brush, and shook back her beautiful hair.

"You mean you do not care for me," she said. "Oh, Paul! be careful."

Paul stood looking at her. He was not a subtle-minded man at all. He was
not one of those who take it upon themselves to say that they understand
women--using the word in an offensively general sense, as if women were
situated midway between the human and the animal races. He was
old-fashioned enough to look upon women as hi