her clothes, the soft touch of her ermine as she swept by--all
these things were indeed strange to him. His eyes followed her with rapt
interest as she approached the counter.

"You wish me to sign for my prescription?" she asked the chemist. "I
will do so, with pleasure, if it is necessary, only you must not keep me
waiting long."

Her voice was very low and very musical; the slight smile which had
parted her tired lips, was almost pathetic. Even the chemist felt
himself to be a human being. He turned at once to his shelves and began
to prepare the drug.

"I am sorry, madam, that it should have been necessary to fetch you in,"
he said, apologetically. "My assistant will give you the book if you
will kindly sign it."

The assistant dived beneath the counter, reappearing almost immediately
with a black volume and a pen and ink. The chemist was engrossed upon
his task; Tavernake's eyes were still riveted upon this woman, who
seemed to him the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in life. No one
was watching the girl. The chemist was the first to see her face, and
that only in a looking glass. He stopped in the act of mixing his drug
and turned slowly round. His expression was such that they all followed
his eyes. The girl was sitting up in her chair, with a sudden spot of
color burning in her cheeks, her fingers gripping the counter as though
for support, her eyes dilated, unnatural, burning in their white setting
with an unholy fire. The lady was the last to turn her head, and the
bottle of eau-de-cologne which she had taken up from the counter,
slipped with a crash to the floor. All expression seemed to pass from
her face; the very life seemed drawn from it. Those who were watching
her saw suddenly an old woman looking at something of which she was
afraid.

The girl seemed to find an unnatural strength. She dragged herself up
and turned wildly to Tavernake.

"Take me away," she cried, in a low voice. "Take me away at once."

The woman at the counter did not speak. Tavernake stepped quickly
forward and then hesitated. The girl was on her feet now and she
clutched at his arms. Her eyes besought him.

"You must take me away, please," she begged, hoarsely. "I am well
now--quite well. I can walk."

Tavernake's lack of imagination stood him in good stead then. He simply
did what he was told, did it in perfectly mechanical fashion, without
asking any questions. With the girl leaning heavily upon his arm, he
steppe