ile looks of her husband. She felt
that she was not being natural with Amaldi, and the more this feeling
overcame her, the more she felt it impossible to recover her free,
delightful intercourse with him. They talked conventionally, gliding
over the surface of things. Once, in spite of herself, her eyes strayed
towards Cecil. But he was not looking at her. He was leaning close to
Lady Chassilis. A flush had come into his face. His eyes glittered. He
seemed to be saying something delightful but rather shocking, for Sybil
Chassilis gave him a sidelong flash out of her black eyes--then flushed
and cast them down, smiling in a peculiar way. Sophy noticed with a
sinking heart that he drank glass after glass of champagne. It must
indeed be good wine for Cecil to drink so freely of it. He usually
cursed the champagne of his friends.

Suddenly Tyne turned again to Sophy.

"I have a grievance--a sorrow--a real sorrow," he said. "I wonder if you
can console me?"

"What is it?" asked Sophy in a low voice. He seemed never to be in
earnest, yet, at that moment, the queer feeling of compassion that he
always excited in her, rose in her heart.

He drew a deep sigh. Now she was sure that there was a mocking light,
far back in his pale eyes.

"It is that no one will believe in my real wickedness--my beautiful
vileness. I have no disciple who really believes in me. Yet I am
wonderfully vile. Virtue seems like a pale, pock marked wench to me. I
feel like crying out on her like old Capulet: 'Out, you tallow-face! You
baggage!' But Sin, with the clear black flames curled about her naked
feet like the petals of a lotus--Sin, with her delicate, acrid lips that
never satiate and are never satiated--her I worship! her I serve!--Do
you believe me?"

Sophy sat gazing at him. Something strange and wild, and unbelievable
took place in her. She saw--no, she _knew_--not by ratiocination, but as
one knows when one falls into the sea that one is wet--she _knew_ that
this man was truly vile, that he was speaking the truth to her. But even
more wonderful, she knew that horror and tragedy unspeakable waited for
him. It was as if the poisonous shadow fell over him as she looked--as
if its outer hem touched her like a thing of palpable texture.

He was looking at her strangely, too--half as if afraid, but curious.
Like a man who knows that the oracle can divine truly--that it may
answer to his undoing, and that, if it answers thus, that answer will