the atmosphere of the room was
insupportable, and that she was going to try the purer air of the
conservatory beyond the dining-room.

"No, you need not come," Beatrice said as Richford lounged heavily to
his feet. "I do not feel the least in the mood to talk to anybody, not
even you."

The listener's sullen features flushed, and he clenched his hands.
Beatrice had never taken the slightest trouble to disguise her dislike
for the man she had promised to marry. In his heart of hearts he had
made up his mind that she should suffer presently for all the
indignities that she had heaped upon his head.

"All right," he said. "I'll come into the drawing-room and wait for you.
Keep you from being interrupted, in fact. I know what women's headaches
mean."

There was no mistaking the cowardly insinuation, but Berrington said
nothing. Richford could not possibly have seen the signal, and yet he
implied an assignation if his words meant anything at all. It was a
cruel disappointment, but the girl's face said nothing of her emotions.
She passed quietly along till she came to the little conservatory where
presently she was followed by the Swiss waiter, who had given her the
card with Mark Ventmore's message upon it.

"Madame is not well," he said. "Madame has the dreadful headache. Can I
get anything for Madame? A glass of water, an ice, a cup of coffee,
or----"

Beatrice was on the point of declining everything, when she caught the
eye of the speaker. Apparently there was some hidden meaning behind his
words, for she changed her mind.

"No coffee," she said in a voice that was meant for the lounger in the
drawing-room, "but I shall be very glad if you will let me have a cup of
tea, strong tea, without milk or sugar."

The waiter bowed and retired. Beatrice sat there with her head back as
if utterly worn out, though her heart was beating thick and fast. She
looked up again presently as a waiter entered leaving the necessary
things on a tray. It was not the same waiter, but a taller, fairer man
who bowed as he held out the silver salver.

"The tea, Madame," he said. "May I be allowed to pour it out for you?
Steady!"

The last word was no more than a whisper. Beatrice checked the cry that
came to her lips.

"Mark," she murmured. "Mark, dear Mark, is it really you?"

The tall waiter smiled as he laid a hand on the girl's trembling
fingers.

"Indeed it is, darling," he said. "For God's sake don't say I have come
too l