e at last--what he was waiting for. There was a slight click of
the latch from the old postern door in the wall, and the low murmur of
voices--a man's, pleading and passionate, and a woman's, half gay, half
mocking. Then the door opened and shut, and a tall fair lady walked
leisurely up toward the villa.

She wore no hat, but a hooded opera-cloak was thrown loosely over her
shoulders, and as she strolled up the path, pausing every now and then
to carelessly gather a handful of the drooping lilies, whose perfume
made faint the heavy night air, its folds parted, and revealed brief
glimpses of soft white drapery and flashing jewels on her bosom and in
her hair. Her feet, too, were cased in tiny white satin slippers, which
seemed scarcely to press the ground, so lightly and gracefully she
walked. Altogether she was very fair to look upon--the fairest sight in
all that lovely garden.

Not so seemed to think the man who stood back in the shadow of the
window, waiting for her. His white face was ghastly with passion, and
his fingers were nervously interlaced in the curtains. It was only with
a supreme effort that he at last flung them from him, and moved forward
as though to meet her.

She saw him standing there, pale and rigid, like a carved statue, save
for the passion which burned in his eyes, and for a moment she
hesitated. Then, with the resigned air of one who makes up her mind to
face something disagreeable, she shrugged her shoulders, and throwing
away the handful of lilies she had gathered, advanced toward him.

They neither of them spoke until they stood face to face. Then, as his
motionless form prevented her stepping through the window, and barred
her further progress, she came to a standstill, and addressed him
lightly.

"Yours is a strange welcome home, _mon ami_," she said. "Why do you
stand there looking so fierce?"

He pointed with shaking fingers away toward the east, where a faint
gleam of daylight was lightening the sky.

"Where have you been?" he asked harshly. "Can you not see that it is
morning? All night long I have sat here watching for you. Where have you
been?"

"You know very well where I have been," she answered carelessly. "To the
ball at the Leon d'Or. I told you that I was going."

"Told me! You told me! Did I not forbid it? Did I not tell you that I
would not have you go?"

"Nevertheless, I have been," she answered lightly. "It was an
engagement, and I never break engagements."