spered hoarsely. "Supposing--I keep you
here instead, Sophy?"

She swayed for a moment. Something flashed into her face and passed
away. She was paler than ever.

"Dear John," she begged, "pull yourself together! Remember that Louise
is waiting for you. It's Louise you want--not me. Nothing that she has
done to-night should make her any the less worthy of you and your love."

He strode away into the farther room. He reappeared in a moment or two,
his hair smoothly brushed, his tie newly arranged.

"I'll come, little girl," he promised. "I don't know what I'll say to
her, but I'll come. There can't be any harm in that!"

"Of course not," she answered cheerfully. "You're the most terrible
goose, John," she added, as they walked down the corridor. "Do, please,
lose your tragical air. The whole world is at Louise's feet to-night.
You mustn't let her know how absurdly you have been feeling. To-morrow
you will find that every paper in London will be acclaiming her genius."

John squared his shoulders.

"All the same," he declared grimly, "if I could burn the theater and the
play, and lock up Graillot for a month, to-night, I'd do it!"

XXV

The days and weeks drifted into months, and John remained in London. His
circle of friends and his interests had widened. It was only his
relations with Louise which remained still unchanged. Always charming to
him, giving him much of her time, favoring him, beyond a doubt, more
than any of her admirers, there was yet about her something elusive,
something which seemed intended to keep him so far as possible at arm's
length.

There was nothing tangible of which he could complain, and this
probationary period was of his own suggestion. He bore it grimly,
holding his place, whenever it was possible, by her side with dogged
persistence. Then one evening there was a knock at his door, and Stephen
Strangewey walked in.

After all, this meeting, of which John had often thought, and which
sometimes he had dreaded a little, turned out to be a very ordinary
affair. Stephen, although he seemed a little taller and gaunter than
ever, though he seemed to bring into the perhaps overwarmed atmosphere
of John's little sitting room something of the cold austerity of his own
domain, had evidently come in no unfriendly spirit. He took both his
brother's hands in his and gripped them warmly.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, Stephen!" John dec