ead was thrown back, her deep-set eyes were looking up
with an expression of strange longing, the rich hair flowed down over
her bare neck, where one beautiful hand caught it and seemed to press
the tangled locks upon her heart.

The picture's beauty was the beauty of life, for the features were not
technically faultless. The lips glowed with burning breath, the twining
hair was alive and elastic, the after-light of a profound and secret
pleasure lingered in the liquid eyes, blending with the shadow of pain
just past but passionately desired again.

Margaret gazed at the painting a few seconds, for it fascinated her
against her will. Then she laid down the small looking-glass and turned
away rather abruptly.

'I don't like to look at it,' she said, avoiding Logotheti's eyes. 'I
think it must be time to be going,' she added. 'Mrs. Rushmore will be
wondering where I am.'

She went back across the room a little way with Logotheti by her side.
Suddenly he stopped and laughed softly.

'By Jove!' he exclaimed under his breath, pointing to the arm-chair in
which Madame De Rosa was sitting. 'She's fast asleep!'

She was sleeping as peacefully as a cat after a meal, half curled up in
the big chair, her head turned to one side and her cheek buried in a
cushion of Rhodes tapestry. Margaret stood and looked at her with
curiosity and some amusement.

'She's not generally a very sleepy person,' said the young girl.

'The emotions of your first rehearsal have tired her out,' said
Logotheti. 'They don't seem to have affected you at all,' he added.
'Shall we wake her?'

Margaret hesitated, and then bent down and touched the sleeping woman's
arm gently, and called her by name in a low tone; but without the
slightest result.

'She must be very tired,' Margaret said in a tone of sympathy. 'After
all, it's not so very late. We had better let her sleep a few minutes
longer, poor thing.'

Logotheti bent his head gravely.

'We'll make up the time with the motor in going to Versailles,' he
said.

By unspoken consent, they moved away and sat down at some distance from
Madame De Rosa's chair, at the end of the room opposite to the picture.
Logotheti did not speak at once, but sat leaning forward, his wrists
resting on his knees, his hands hanging down limply, his eyes bent on
the carpet. As she sat, Margaret could see the top of his head; there
was a sort of fascination about his preternaturally glossy black hair,
and the faultl