arest her, and says with
difficulty:

"I brought you this. At breakfast this morning you said you had not read
it; and to-night I knew you would be alone, and I thought--it is 'The
Europeans'--it might help you to while away an hour."

Her voice dies away and again silence follows it. She is really
frightened now. She has met many men, has been the acknowledged beauty
of a London season, has had great homage laid at her feet; but no man
has had power to make her heart waken, until she met this man, upon whom
disgrace lies heavy. It is _Kismet_! She feels cold now, and miserable,
and humbled before him who should surely be humbled before her. What has
she meant by coming to his room without so much as an invitation; to
him--who in her sight is guilty, indeed, of an offense not to be
forgiven in the world.

She grows tired and very weary, and the old pain at her heart, that
always comes to her when she is miserable or perplexed, is tormenting
her now, making her feel sick of life and dispirited.

"It was kind of you to think of me," says Fabian, coldly; "_too_ kind.
But there are some matters of importance I must get through to-night,
and I fear I shall not have time for fiction."

She takes up the book again, the little instrument that betrays his
determination to accept no benefits at her hands, and moves toward the
door.

Coming quickly up to her, that he may open the door, he stands between
her and it, and stops her.

"As you are here," he says, "let me look at you. Remember, I have never
seen you dressed for a ball before."

As if astonished at his request, she stands quite still, and, letting
her round, bare arms hang loosely before her, with her hands clasped,
she lets him gaze at her sweet fairness in utter silence. It takes him
some time. Then--

"You are very pale," he says--no more. Not a word of praise escapes him.
She is woman enough to feel chagrin at this, and discontent. Has her
glass lied to her, then? One small word of approbation, even about her
gown, would have been sweet to her at this moment. _Is_ she so very
pale? Is it that this white gown does not become her? A quick dislike to
the beautiful robe--and only an hour ago she had regarded it with
positive affection--now takes possession of her.

"I am always pale," she says, with subdued resentment.

"Not always. To-night one hardly knows where your _dress_ ends, and
where _you_ begin." She has hardly time to wonder if this is a
complim