which--it was so unusual from one in his
habit--he received a hesitating but correct reply. A moment later he
passed Mr. Llewellyn Stanhope, who stood in his path with a hostile
stare, and got out of it with a deferential bow, and knocked at a door
upon which was pasted the name, in large red letters cut from a poster,
of Miss Hilda Howe. It was a little ajar, so he entered, when she cried
"Come in!" with the less hesitation. Hilda sat on the single chair the
place contained, in the dress and make-up of the last scene. A servant,
who looked up incuriously, was unlacing her shoes. Various garments hung
about on nails driven into the unpainted walls, others overflowed from a
packing-box in one corner. A common teakwood dressing-table held make
up saucers and powder-puffs and some remnants of cold fowl which had not
been partaken of, apparently, with the assistance of a knife and fork.
A candle stood in an empty soda-water bottle on each side of the
looking-glass, and there was no other light. On the floor a pair of
stays, old and soiled, sprawled with unconcern. The place looked sordid
and miserable, and Hilda sitting in the middle of it, still in the
yellow wig and painted face of Mrs. Halliday, all wrong at that range,
gave it a note of false artifice, violent and grievous. Stephen stood in
the doorway grasping the handle, saying nothing, and an instant passed
before she knew with certainty, in the wretched light, that it was he.
Then she sprang up and made a step toward him as if toward victory and
reward, but checked herself in time. "Is it possible!" she exclaimed. "I
did not know you were in the theatre."

"Yes," he said, with moderation, "I have seen this--this damnable play."

"Damnable? Oh!--"

"It has caused me," he went on, "to regret the substance of my letter
this morning. I failed to realise that this was the kind of work you
devote your life to. I now see that you could not escape its malign
influence--that no women could. I now think that the alternative that
has been revealed to you, of remaining in Calcutta, is a chance of
escape offered you by God Himself. Take it. I withdraw my foolish,
ignorant opposition."

"Oh," she cried, "do you really think--"

"Take it," he repeated, and closed the door.

Hilda sat still for some time after the servant had finished unlacing
her shoes. A little tender smile played oddly about her carmined lips.
"Dear heart," she said aloud, "I was going to."

CHAPTER