There was not a
sound in the house but that silken rustle. He wondered if he sought
Edith if she would speak to him. He rose and reached for his dressing
gown.

Hilda had grown careless; there was no screen in front of the second
door, and the crack was wide. The General standing in the dark saw her
before his wife's mirror, wearing his wife's jewels, wrapped in the
cloak which his wife had worn--triumphant--beautiful!

It was that air of triumph which repelled him. It was a discordant
note in the Cophetua theme. He had liked her in her nurse's white. In
the trappings which did not belong to her she showed herself a trifle
vulgar--less than a lady.

He had crept back to bed, and wide-awake, he had worked it all out in
his mind. It was his money which Hilda wanted, the things that he
could give her; he meant to her pink parasols and satin slippers, and
diamonds and pearls and ermines and sables, and a check-book, with
unlimited credit everywhere.

And to get the things that she wanted, she had given him that which had
stolen away his brains, which might indeed have done more than
that--which might have killed his soul.

He had heard her come in, but he had simulated sleep. She had seated
herself by the little table, and had gone on with her book. Between
his half-closed eyes he had studied her--seeing her with new eyes--the
hard line of her lips, the long white hands, the heaviness of her chin.

Then he had slept, and had waked to find the day nurse on duty. He
felt that he should be glad never to see Hilda again. He dreaded the
night when he must once more speak to her.

He was very tired sitting there in his chair. The rug had slipped from
his knees. He tried to reach for it and failed. But he did not want
to call the day nurse. He wanted some one with him who--cared. He
raised his poor old eyes to the lady in the picture. He was cold and
tired.

He wished that Bronson would come back--good old Bronson, to pull up
the rug. He wished that Derry might come.

A door below opened and shut. Some one was ascending the stairs. Some
one who walked with a light step--some one slim and youthful, in a
white gown--!

"Edith--?"

But Edith's hair had not been crinkled and copper-colored, and Edith
would have come straight up to him; she would not have hesitated on the
top step as if afraid to advance.

"Who are you?"

"Jean--"

"Jean?"

"Derry's wife."

"Come here." He tried to reach ou