Mr. Siward!'"

"But you haven't invited me to do anything--not even to accept a
cigarette. Besides, you didn't expect to meet me up here?"

The trailing accent made it near enough a question for him to say, "Yes,
I did."

"How could you?"

"I saw you leave the room."

"You were sketching for Marion Page. Do you wish me to believe that you
noticed me--"

"--And followed you? Yes, I did follow you." She looked at him, then
past him toward a corner of the wide hall where a maid in cap and apron
sat pretending to be sewing. "Careful!" she motioned with smiling lips,
"servants gossip. ... Good night, again."

"Won't you--"

"Oh, dear! you mustn't speak so loud," she motioned, with her fresh,
sweet lips curving on the edge of that adorable smile once more.

"Couldn't we have a moment--"

"No--"

"One minute--"

"Hush! I must open my door"--lingering. "I might come out again, if you
have anything particularly important to communicate to me."

"I have. There's a big bay-window at the end of the other corridor. Will
you come?"

But she opened her door, with a light laugh, saying "good night" again,
and closed it noiselessly behind her.

He walked on, turning into his corridor, but kept straight ahead,
passing his own door, on to the window at the end of the hall,
then north along a wide passageway which terminated in a bay-window
overlooking the roof of the indoor swimming tank.

Rain rattled heavily, against the panes and on the lighted roof of
opalescent glass below, through which he could make out the shadowy
fronds of palms.

It appeared that he had cigarettes enough, for he lighted one presently,
and, leaving his chair, curled up in the cushioned and pillowed
window-seat, gathering his knees together under his arm.

The cigarette he had lighted went out. He had bitten into it and twisted
it so roughly that it presently crumbled; and he threw the rags of it
into a metal bowl, locking his jaws in silence. For the night threatened
to be a bad one for him. A heavy fragrance from his neighbour's
wine-glass at dinner had stirred up what had for a time lain dormant;
and, by accident, something--some sweetmeat he had tasted--was saturated
in brandy.

Now, his restlessness at the prospect of a blank night had quickened to
uneasiness, with a hint of fever tinting his skin, but, as yet, the dull
ache in his body was scarcely more than a premonition.

He had his own devices for tiding him over such periods--