ctacles, and let Mary know that Mr. Stuart will be in to
supper with me."

Stephen obeyed in silence. He remembered the time, not so long ago, when
he would have been required to seat himself on the opposite side of the
fireplace, with a smaller Bible in his hand, and read word for word with
his father. His mind went back to those days as he walked slowly up the
great grass-grown avenue to the house, picking his steps carefully, lest
he should mar the brilliancy of his well-polished patent-leather boots.
He compared that old time curiously with the evening which was now
before him; the round table drawn into the midst of the splendid
dining-room, an oasis of exquisitely shaded light and colour; Lady
Peggy with her daring toilette and beautiful white shoulders; Deyes
with his world-worn face and flippant tongue; the mistress of Thorpe
herself, more subdued, perhaps, in dress and speech, and yet with the
ever-present mystery of eyes and lips wherein was always the fascination
of the unknown. More than ever that night Stephen Hurd felt himself to
be her helpless slave. All his former amours seemed suddenly empty and
vulgar things. She came late into the drawing-room, her greeting was as
carelessly kind as usual, there was no perceptible difference in her
manner of speech. Yet his observation of her was so intense that he
found readily the signs of some subtle, indefinable change, a change
which began with her toilette, and ended--ah! as yet there was no
ending. Her gown of soft white silk was daring as a French modiste could
make it, but its simplicity was almost nun-like. She wore a string of
pearls, no earrings, no rings, and her hair was arranged low down,
almost like a schoolgirl's. She had more colour than usual, a temporary
restlessness seemed to have taken the place of her customary easy
languor. What did it mean? he asked himself breathlessly. Was it Deyes?
Impossible, for Deyes himself was a watcher, a thin smile parting
sometimes the close set lips of his white, mask-like face. After all,
how hopelessly at sea he was! He knew nothing of her life, of which
these few days at Thorpe were merely an interlude. She might have lovers
by the score of whom he knew nothing. He was vain, but he was not wholly
a fool.

She talked more than usual at dinner-time, but afterwards she spoke of a
headache, and sat on the window-seat of the library, a cigarette between
her lips, her eyes half closed. When the bridge table was laid