e."

She pointed to the recess; her voice rang with contempt. Wethermill
staggered across the room like a drunkard, and picked up the key in
trembling fingers. Celia heard it turn in the lock, and the door bang.
Wethermill had gone upstairs.

Celia leaned back, her heart fainting within her. Arrange! It was her
turn now. She was to be "arranged." She had no doubt what sinister
meaning that innocent word concealed. The dry, choking sound, the
horrid scuffling of feet upon the floor, were in her ears. And it had
taken so long--so terribly long!

She heard the door open again and shut again. Then steps approached the
recess. The curtains were flung back, and the two women stood in front
of her--the tall Adele Rossignol with her red hair and her coarse good
looks and her sapphire dress, and the hard-featured, sallow maid. The
maid was carrying Celia's white coat. They did not mean to murder her,
then. They meant to take her away, and even then a spark of hope lit up
in the girl's bosom. For even with her illusions crushed she still
clung to life with all the passion of her young soul.

The two women stood and looked at her; and then Adele Rossignol burst
out laughing. Vauquier approached the girl, and Celia had a moment's
hope that she meant to free her altogether, but she only loosed the
cords which fixed her to the pillar and the high stool.

"Mademoiselle will pardon me for laughing," said Adele Rossignol
politely; "but it was mademoiselle who invited me to try my hand. And
really, for so smart a young lady, mademoiselle looks too ridiculous."

She lifted the girl up and carried her back writhing and struggling
into the salon. The whole of the pretty room was within view, but in
the embrasure of a window something lay dreadfully still and quiet.
Celia held her head averted. But it was there, and, though it was
there, all the while the women joked and laughed, Adele Rossignol
feverishly, Helene Vauquier with a real glee most horrible to see.

"I beg mademoiselle not to listen to what Adele is saying," exclaimed
Helene. And she began to ape in a mincing, extravagant fashion the
manner of a saleswoman in a shop. "Mademoiselle has never looked so
ravishing. This style is the last word of fashion. It is what there is
of most chic. Of course, mademoiselle understands that the costume is
not intended for playing the piano. Nor, indeed, for the ballroom. It
leaps to one's eyes that dancing would be difficult. Nor is it in