of
trouble, which she did not care to investigate. When informed that
there was a lady waiting to see her on important business, she simply
elected to let her wait until her toilet was finished. She had a
conviction that it was some officious patroness on a charity
mission--someone who wanted money for the good of other people. And as
there are times when we all feel the claims of charity to be an
unwarrantable imposition, so Elizabeth, blown-about, sun-browned,
snubbed, disappointed, and anxious about her lover, was not, on this
particular occasion, more to blame for want of courtesy than many
others have been.

Finally she descended to the drawing-room and was ready to receive her
visitor. There was a very large mirror in the room, and pending her
entrance Elizabeth stood before it noticing the set and flow of her
black lace dress, its heliotrope ribbons, and the sparkle of the
hidden jets upon the bodice. Some heliotrope blossoms were in her
breast, and her hands were covered with gloves of the same delicate
colour. Denas saw her thus; saw her reflection in the glass before she
turned to confront her.

For a moment Elizabeth was puzzled. The white face amid its sombre,
heavy draperies had a familiarity she strove to name, but could not.
But as Denasia came forward, some trick of head-carriage or of walking
revealed her personality, and Elizabeth cried out in a kind of angry
amazement:

"Denas! You here?"

"I am no more Denas to you than you are Elizabeth to me."

"Well, then, Mrs. Tresham! And pray where is my brother?"

"Dead."

"Dead? dead? Impossible! And if so, it is your fault, I know it is! I
had a letter from him--the last letter--he said he was coming to me."

She was frightfully pale; she staggered to a sofa, sat down, and
covered her face with her gloved hands. Denasia stood by a table
watching her emotion and half-doubting its genuineness. A silence
followed, so deep and long that Elizabeth could not endure it. She
stood up and looked at Denasia, reproach and accusation in every tone
and attitude. "Where did he die?" she asked.

"In New York."

"Of what did he die?"

"Of pneumonia."

"It was your fault, I am sure of it. Your fault in some way. My poor
Roland! He had left you, I know that; and I hoped everything for his
future."

"He had come back to me. He loved me better than ever. He died in my
arms--died adoring me. His last work on earth was to give me this list
of property, which