uch nearer hating him. So much for the prince! In ten
minutes we shall be at home, and you are such a dear stupid about coming
in. You must try to say all the nice things in the world to me
quickly--in ten minutes!"

"How shall I begin?" he whispered.

She leaned once more toward him.

"You don't need any hints," she murmured. "You're really quite good at
it!"

XXXIV

The ten minutes passed very much too quickly. She was gone, and John,
thrilled though he was through all his senses by the almost passionate
fervor of her leave-taking, found himself once more confronted by that
little black demon. He sat up in the car, which bore him quickly back
toward his rooms; and although the sense of her presence, the delicate
perfume, the empty place by his side, even a fallen flower from her
gown, were still there, the unrest seemed sharper.

There was something about all of them, all these people whom he knew to
be his friends, which seemed to him to savor of a conspiracy. One by one
they flitted through his brain--Graillot's covert warning; Sophy's
plaintive, almost fearful doubts; the prince's subtle yet cynical
silence; and behind it all, Stephen's brutal and outspoken words. There
was nothing that could be put into definite shape--just the ghost of
torturing, impossible thoughts. John told himself that it must be ended.
Even though the words should blister his tongue with shame, they must be
spoken.

A moment later he hated himself for the thought. He set his teeth,
filled his thought with the glory of her presence, and crushed those
demoniacal suggestions to the back of his brain. He was in no humor to
go home, however. Changing the order he had first given to the
chauffeur, he was driven instead to a small Bohemian club which he had
joined at Graillot's instigation. He had a vague hope that he might
find the great dramatist there. There were no signs of him, however, in
the smoking room, or any one else whom John knew.

He threw himself into an easy chair and ordered a whisky-and-soda. Two
men close at hand were writing at desks; others were lounging about,
discussing the evening's reception. One man, sitting upon the table, a
recognized authority, was treating the company to a fluent dissertation
upon modern actresses, winding up by contrasting Louise Maurel's style
with that of her chief French rival. John found himself listening with
pleased interest. The man's opinion w