consider her out of all that company was pleasant. "I will get my
cloak."

Throughout the supper-party Hillyard had been at a loss to discover in
Stella Croyle the woman whom Hardiman had led him to expect. Her spirits
were high, but unforced. She chattered away with more gaiety than wit,
like the rest of Hardiman's guests, but the gaiety was apt to the
occasion. She had the gift of a clear and musical laugh, and her small
delicate face would wrinkle and pout into grimaces which gave to her a
rather attractive air of _gaminerie_--Hillyard could find no word but
the French one to express her on that evening. He drove her to a small
house in the Bayswater Road, overlooking Kensington Gardens.

"Will you come in for a moment?" she asked.

Hillyard followed her up a paved pathway, through a tiny garden enclosed
in a high wall, to her door. She led him into a room bright with flowers
and pictures. Curtains of purple brocade were drawn across the window, a
fire burned on the hearth, and thick soft cushions on broad couches gave
the room a look of comfort.

"You live here alone?" Hillyard asked.

"Yes."

She turned suddenly towards him as he gazed about the room.

"I married a long while ago." She stood in front of him like a slim
child. It seemed impossible. "Yes, before I knew anything--to get away
from home. Our marriage did not go smoothly. After three years I ran