exonerate him in her eyes. She had answered that all words between them
were purposeless, and that she hoped never to see his face again. The
experience that the years had brought to her, instead of elucidating
the mystery of Reginald's personality, had, on the contrary, made his
behaviour appear more and more unaccountable. She had more than once
caught herself wishing to meet him again and to analyse dispassionately
the puzzling influences he had exerted upon her. And she could at last
view him dispassionately; there was triumph in that. She was dimly aware
that something had passed from her, something by which he had held her,
and without which his magnetism was unable to play upon her.

So when Walkham sent her an invitation to one of his artistic "at homes"
she accepted, in the hope of meeting Reginald. It was his frequentation
of Walkham's house that had for several years effectively barred her
foot from crossing the threshold. It was with a very strange feeling she
greeted the many familiar faces at Walkham's now; and when, toward ten
o'clock, Reginald entered, politely bowing in answer to the welcome from
all sides, her heart beat in her like a drum. But she calmed herself,
and, catching his eye, so arranged it that early in the evening they
met in an alcove of the drawing-room.

"It was inevitable," Reginald said. "I expected it."

"Yes," she replied, "we were bound to meet."

Like a great rush of water, memory came back to her. He was still
horribly fascinating as of old--only she was no longer susceptible to
his fascination. He had changed somewhat in those years. The lines about
his mouth had grown harder and a steel-like look had come into his eyes.
Only for a moment, as he looked at her, a flash of tenderness seemed to