Challoner beautiful, roguishly, daringly, puzzlingly beautiful. Her
eyes sparkled like stars on ruffled waters, the flame of health and
life burned in her cheeks, and the moist red mobile mouth expressed
emotions so rapidly and irregularly as to bewilder the man who
attempted to follow them. Ah, but she could act; comedy or tragedy, it
mattered not; she was always superb.

There was a tableau of short duration. Her expression was one of
gentle inquiry, his was one of interest not unmixed with fascination.
He felt a quick touch of compassion, of embarrassment. There had been
times when yonder woman had seemed to show him the preference that is
given only to men who are loved. Even as the thought came to him, he
prayed that it was only his man's vanity that imagined it. As he
stared at her, there came the old thrill: beauty is a power
tremendous.

"Dick, you do not say you are glad to see me."

"Beauty striketh the sage dumb," he laughed. "What good fortune brings
you here to-night? What has happened? How could you find time between
the acts to run over?"

"I am not acting to-night."

"What?"

"No. Nor shall I be to-morrow night, nor the thousand nights that
shall follow."

"Why, girl!" he cried, pushing out a chair. He had not seen her for