her mother a telegram. The young man had
composed it. He had told the mother not to worry. "I'm dining out and
won't be home till late."

"We won't say how late," he had explained with an ingenuous smile,
"because we don't know, do we?"

They had gone to a drug store, and the clerk had bound a soothing
dressing on Lila's poisoned hand.

They turned from the main road into a long avenue over which trees met
in a continuous arch. The place was all a-twinkle with fireflies. Box,
roses, and honeysuckle filled the air with delicious odors--then strong,
pungent, bracing as wine, the smell of salt-marshes, and coldness off
the water. On a point of land among trees many lights glowed.

"That's my place," said the young man.

"We'll have dinner on the terrace--deep water comes right up to it.
There's no wind to-night. The candles won't even flicker."

As if the stopping of the automobile had been a signal, the front door
swung quietly open and a Chinese butler in white linen appeared against
a background of soft coloring and subdued lights.

As Lila entered the house her knees shook a little. She felt that she
was definitely committing herself to what she must always regret. She
was a fly walking deliberately into a spider's parlor. That the young
man hitherto had behaved most circumspectly, she dared not count in his
favor. Was it not always so in the beginning? He seemed like a jolly,
kindly boy. She had the impulse to scream and to run out of the house,
to hide in the shrubbery, to throw herself into the water. Her heart
beat like that of a trapped bird. She heard the front door close behind
her.

"I think you'd be more comfy," said the young man, "if you took off your
hat, don't you? Dinner'll be ready in about ten minutes. Fong will show
you where to go."

She followed the Chinaman up a flight of broad low steps. Their feet
made no sound on the thick carpeting. He held open the door of a
bedroom. It was all white and delicate and blue. Through a door at the
farther end she had a glimpse of white porcelain and shining nickel.

Her first act when the Chinaman had gone was to lock the door by which
she had entered. Then she looked from each of the windows in turn. The
terrace was beneath her, brick with a balustrade of white, with white
urns. The young man, bareheaded, paced the terrace like a sentinel. He
was smoking a cigarette.

To the left was a round table, set for two. She could see that the
chairs were of