I
sha'n't forget it."

She crossed the room to her desk, and returned with a folded envelope.
He stuffed it into his waistcoat pocket.

"I shall be at the opera tonight," she said. "Will you come there and
tell me what--which you decide?"

"With pleasure," he answered, "if I can get away from a stupid dinner in
time."

She let him go reluctantly. Afterwards she passed into her own room,
and stood looking at herself in the pier glass. Artists and the society
papers called her the most beautiful woman in England; fashion had
placed her upon such a pinnacle that men counted it a distinction to be
seen speaking to her. She dealt out her smiles and favors like Royalty
itself; she had never once known a rebuff. This afternoon she felt that
she had received one. Had she been too cold or too forward? Perhaps she
had underestimated the man himself. She rang for her maid.

"Celeste," she said, "I shall wear my new Paquin gown tonight at the
opera, and my pearls."

"Very good, your ladyship."

"And I am going to lie down for an hour or two now. Don't let me be
disturbed. I want to look my best tonight. You understand?"

"Perfectly, your ladyship."

The Marchioness rested, but she did not sleep. She was thinking of
Wingrave!

It was not Lady Ruth, but her husband, who was waiting to see Wingrave
on his return. Aynesworth was talking to him, but at once withdrew.
Wingrave nodded with slightly upraised eyebrows. He never shook hands
with Barrington.

"You wanted to see me?" he inquired, carelessly turning over a little
pile of letters.

Barrington was ill at ease. He hated himself and he hated his errand.

"Yes, for a moment or two--if you're not busy," he said. "May I smoke?
I'm nervous this morning."

"Help yourself," Wingrave said shortly. "Cigarettes and cigars on the
sideboard. Touch the bell if you'll take anything to drink."

"Thanks--Aynesworth gave me a brandy and soda. Capital fellow,
Aynesworth!"

"Have another," Wingrave said shortly.

He crossed the room to the sideboard. Wingrave glanced up from his
letters, and smiled coldly as he saw the shaking fingers.

"I don't often indulge like this," Barrington said, turning away from
the sideboard with a tumbler already empty in his hands. "The fact is,
I've had rather a rude knock, and Ruth thought I'd better come and see
you."

Wingrave remained a study of impassivity. His guest's whole demeanor,
his uneasy words and nervous glances were an unspoken