privileged to see it?"

Reginald's eyes were already straying back to his writing table. "If the
gods are propitious," he remarked, "I shall complete it to-night.
To-morrow is my reception, and I have half promised to read it then."

"Perhaps I shall be in the position soon to let you see my play."

"Let us hope so," Reginald replied absent-mindedly. The egotism of the
artist had once more chained him to his work.




X


That night a brilliant crowd had gathered in Reginald Clarke's house.
From the studio and the adjoining salon arose a continual murmur of
well-tuned voices. On bare white throats jewels shone as if in each a
soul were imprisoned, and voluptuously rustled the silk that clung to
the fair slim forms of its bearers in an undulating caress. Subtle
perfumes emanated from the hair and the hands of syren women,
commingling with the soft plump scent of their flesh. Fragrant tapers,
burning in precious crystal globules stained with exquisite colours,
sprinkled their shimmering light over the fashionable assemblage and
lent a false radiance to the faces of the men, while in the hair and the
jewels of the women each ray seemed to dance like an imp with its mate.

A seat like a throne, covered with furs of tropic beasts of prey, stood