e had of looking and
speaking which Flora could only describe as smooth. But smooth without
texture or softness; smooth as quick-flowing water, smooth as glass--a
surface upon which even caution might lose its equilibrium. For the
danger in Clara was that she was disarming. There was nothing
antagonistic in her. One noticed her slowly. The flat tones of her voice
made background for other people's conversations. The pale tints of her
gown blended with the pale tones of her hair and flesh. Beside Clara's
exquisite gradations Flora felt herself without shades, a creature of
violent contrasts and impulses. If Clara had been going to carry the
ring about with her she would have had a reason for it. But Flora had
nothing but a silly fancy.

She made up her mind to leave the sapphire at home; but in her last
moment in her room the resolution failed her. Harry, of course, would be
angry if he knew, but Harry wouldn't see the thing under her glove.

She came down to where Clara was waiting for her, with the guilty
feeling of a child who has concealed a contraband cake; but the way
Clara looked her over made her conscious that she had not concealed her
excitement. Clara was always cool. What would it be like, she wondered,
to feel the same about everything? How would it seem to be no more
elated by the expectation of listening to the most beautiful of tenors
than over the next meeting of the Decade Club? Was that what she was
coming to in time? Not to-night, she thought; and not, at least, while
that talisman of romance clasped her around the third finger.

VIII

A SPARK OF HORROR

They found Harry waiting for them in the theater lobby. He had come up
too late from Burlingame to do more than meet the party there. The
Bullers were already in the box, he said, and the second act of _I'
Pagliacci_ just beginning.

As they came to the door of the box the lights were down, the curtain up
on a dim stage, and the chorus still floating into the roof, while the
three occupants of the box were indistinguishable figures, risen up and
shuffling chairs to the front for Flora and Clara. It was too dark to
distinguish faces.

But dark as it was, Flora knew who was sitting behind her. She heard him
speaking. Under the notes of the recitative he was speaking to Clara.
The pleasure of finding him here was sharpened by the surprise. She
listened to his voice, the mere intonation of which brought back to her
their walk through the