amity and grief; a woman
expecting her lover, and yet to whom his coming could only be disastrous;
a woman with a heart divided between tremulous joy and dull sorrow; who
was at once in heaven and in hell; the victim of love. How often have I
called my dead Carlotta the victim of Diaz! Let me be less unjust, and
say that he, too, was the victim of love. What was Diaz but the
instrument of the god?

Jocelyn stood near me by the piano. I glanced at her as I played, and
smiled. She answered my smile; her eyes glistened with tears; I bent my
gaze suddenly to the keyboard. 'You too!' I thought sadly, 'You too!...
One day! One day even you will know what life is, and the look in those
innocent eyes will never be innocent again!'

Then there was a sharp crack at the other end of the room; the handle of
the door turned, and the door began to open. My heart bounded and
stopped. It must be he, at last! I perceived the fearful intensity of my
longing for his presence. But it was only a servant with a tray. My
fingers stammered and stumbled. For a few instants I forced them to obey
me; my pride was equal to the strain, though I felt sick and fainting.
And then I became aware that my guests were staring at me with alarmed
and anxious faces. Mrs. Sardis had started from her chair. I dropped my
hands. It was useless to fight further; the battle was lost.

'I will not play any more,' I said quickly. 'I ought not to have tried to
play from memory. Excuse me.'

And I left the piano as calmly as I could. I knew that by an effort I
could walk steadily and in a straight line across the room to Vicary and
the others, and I succeeded. They should not learn my secret.

'Poor thing!' murmured Mrs. Sardis sympathetically. 'Do sit down, dear.'

'Won't you have something to drink?' said Vicary.

'I am perfectly all right,' I said. 'I'm only sorry that my memory is not
what it used to be.' And I persisted in standing for a few moments by the
mantelpiece. In the glass I caught one glimpse of a face as white as
milk, Jocelyn remained at her post by the piano, frightened by she knew
not what, like a young child.

'Our friend finished a new work only yesterday,' said Lord Francis
shakily. He had followed me. 'She has wisely decided to take a long
holiday. Good-bye, my dear.'

These were the last words he ever spoke to me, though I saw him again. We
shook hands in silence, and he left. Nor would the others stay. I had
ruined the night. We were