an dried her tears and sprang to her
feet. She had never felt so lonely, so happy, so free as she did that
moment when her spirit turned homeward again.

She kicked off her sandals and began to dance about the studio, lightly,
joyfully.

The late afternoon was fading into a sudden darkness--a storm was
coming; black, copper-dashed clouds were rolling on rapidly, full of
noise and electricity; in a short time they would break over the
city--but Joan danced on and on!

In that hour not one thought of Kenneth Raymond disturbed her. He
belonged to the time of mistaken freedom; he was one who had helped her
to think she could make unreal things true. He had no place here and
now. She somehow felt that he had passed from her life.

Joan was abnormally young and only superficially old; her experiences
had but developed her spiritually--aroused her better self; and in that
self lay her womanhood, her knowledge of sex relations; there it rested
unharmed, unheeding.

And then came a knock on the door!

The whirling figure paused on the tips of its toes; the brooding face
broke into smiles.

"It's Pat! Come!"

The word "come" was all that reached the waiting man outside--and when
he entered he gathered to himself the glad, joyous welcome meant for
Patricia, and smiled at the poised figure.

"Why!" gasped Joan, and in her excitement almost spoke Raymond's name.

"How--did you find your way here? How did you know?"

"Forgive me; I had to come. I telephoned to the Brier Bush--they gave me
your number."

Raymond closed the door behind him and came to the centre of the big
room, and there he stood smiling at Joan.

"So your name is Sylvia?" he said.

Then Joan understood--Elspeth had respected her wish to be unknown
outside her business, she had given Sylvia's name, had made Sylvia
responsible.

"I tried to get you earlier by telephone."

"I was not home." Joan was thinking hard and fast. Something was very
wrong, but she could not make out what it was.

"Forgive me for breaking rules: I wanted to see you so that rules did
not seem to count. Go on with your dance. You look like the spirit of
twilight. Dance. Dance."

Joan grew more and more perplexed. The anger she felt was less than the
sense of unreality about it all. Raymond was a stranger; he repelled
her; in a way, shocked her.

"I'm through dancing," she said. "Since you are here, sit down. I will
turn on the lights."

"Please don't. And you are angry.