at the play, and report his
presence there with a suspiciously good-looking companion. The idea was
distinctly disagreeable: he did not want the woman he adored to think he
could forget her for a moment. And by this time he had fully persuaded
himself that a letter from her was awaiting him, and had even gone so
far as to imagine that its contents might annul the writer's telegraphed
injunction, and call him to her side at once...

V

At the porter's desk a brief "Pas de lettres" fell destructively on the
fabric of these hopes. Mrs. Leath had not written--she had not taken the
trouble to explain her telegram. Darrow turned away with a sharp pang
of humiliation. Her frugal silence mocked his prodigality of hopes and
fears. He had put his question to the porter once before, on returning
to the hotel after luncheon; and now, coming back again in the late
afternoon, he was met by the same denial. The second post was in, and
had brought him nothing.

A glance at his watch showed that he had barely time to dress before
taking Miss Viner out to dine; but as he turned to the lift a new
thought struck him, and hurrying back into the hall he dashed off
another telegram to his servant: "Have you forwarded any letter with
French postmark today? Telegraph answer Terminus."

Some kind of reply would be certain to reach him on his return from the
theatre, and he would then know definitely whether Mrs. Leath meant
to write or not. He hastened up to his room and dressed with a lighter
heart.

Miss Viner's vagrant trunk had finally found its way to its owner;
and, clad in such modest splendour as it furnished, she shone at Darrow
across their restaurant table. In the reaction of his wounded vanity he
found her prettier and more interesting than before. Her dress, sloping
away from the throat, showed the graceful set of her head on its slender
neck, and the wide brim of her hat arched above her hair like a dusky
halo. Pleasure danced in her eyes and on her lips, and as she shone on
him between the candle-shades Darrow felt that he should not be at all
sorry to be seen with her in public. He even sent a careless glance
about him in the vague hope that it might fall on an acquaintance.

At the theatre her vivacity sank into a breathless hush, and she sat
intent in her corner of their baignoire, with the gaze of a neophyte
about to be initiated into the sacred mysteries. Darrow placed himself
behind her, that he might catch he