ng for the dance and which had not been removed. Every
picture in every mirror is the work of an artist--the man who makes a
mirror is an artist; according to the perfection of his work is the
perfection of the picture. The old cheval glass was as truthful in its way
as Gainsborough, but Gainsborough had never such a lovely subject as
Phyl.

She started at her own reflection as though it had been that of a
stranger. Then she looked mournfully at herself as a man might look at his
splendid gifts which he has thrown away. All that was no use now.

She sat down on the side of her bed with her hands clasped together just
as a child clasps its hands in grief.

Sitting like this with her eyes fixed before her she was looking directly
at Fate.

It was not only Richard Pinckney that she was about to lose but Vernons
and the Past-- Just as Juliet Mascarene had lost everything so was it to
happen to her. Or rather so had it happened, for she felt that the game
was lost--some vague, mysterious, extraordinary game played by unknown
powers had begun on that evening in Ireland when standing by the window of
the library she had heard Pinckney's voice for the first time.

The sense of Fatality came to her from the case of Juliet. Consciously and
unconsciously she had linked herself to Juliet. The extravagant idea that
she herself was Juliet returned and that Richard Pinckney was Rupert had
come to her more than once since that dream or vision in which the guns
had sounded in her ears. The idea had frightened her at first, then
pleased her vaguely. Then she had dismissed it, her _ego_ refusing any one
else a share in her love for Richard, any one--even herself masquerading
under the guise of Juliet.

The idea came back to her now leaving her utterly cold, and yet stirring
her mind anew with the sense of Fate.

* * * * *

When she fell asleep that night she passed into the dreamless condition
which is the nearest thing we know to oblivion, yet her sub-conscious mind
must have carried on its work, for when she awoke just as dawn was showing
at the window it was with the sense of having passed through a long season
of trouble, of having fought with--without conquering--all sorts of
difficulties.

She rose and dressed herself, put on her hat and came down into the
garden.

Vernons was just wakening for the day, and in the garden alive with birds,
she could hear the early morning sounds