light that came from the grate, rested now on hers. At that instant she
seemed like a shadow, beautiful, but a shadow, going toward him as
through no volition of her own. The thick texture on the floor drowned
the sound of her steps; she paused with her fingers on the gilded frame
of a settee. He did not turn, although he must have known she was near;
with his back toward her he gazed down at the soft, bright hues of the
rug, and on it a white thing, a tiny bit of lace, a handkerchief that
some time before had fluttered to the floor and had been left lying
there.

"But--" she spoke now--"you--you who seemed all that was--I can't
believe--it is impossible--inconceivable--"

His features twitched, the nerves seemed moving beneath the skin; but he
answered in a hard tone. "I have told you the truth; because," the words
broke from him, "I had to! Must I," despite himself there was an accent
of acutest pain in his voice, "repeat it?"

"No!" said the girl. "Oh, no."

"You guessed I was going away. I was going so that you might never learn
what you know now."

"I--guessed you were going? Ah, to-night--on the balcony!"

Did he divine what her words recalled, could not but bring to mind? A
tint sprang to her white face; it spread even to the white throat. The
blue eyes grew hard, very hard; the little hand he had so short a while
before held in his, closed; the slender figure which had then seemed to
waver, straightened. He read the thought his words had evoked, did not