s
strangely pale. He could see her quiver, and catch her breath. And she
was looking at him. For that one moment she had forgotten the presence
of others.

Then a hand touched her arm. It was the hand of her elderly escort, in
whose face were anxiety and wonder. The woman started and took her eyes
from Philip. With her escort she seated herself at a table a few paces
away, and for a few moments Philip could see she was fighting for
composure, and that it cost her a struggle to keep her eyes from
turning in his direction while she talked in a low voice to her
companion.

Philip's heart was pounding like an engine. He knew that she was
talking about him now, and he knew that she had cried out when he had
spoken Peter God's name. He forgot Barrow as he looked at her. She was
exquisite, even with that gray pallor that had come so suddenly into
her cheeks. She was not young, as the age of youth is measured. Perhaps
she was thirty, or thirty-two, or thirty-five. If some one had asked
Philip to describe her, he would have said simply that she was
glorious. Yet her entrance had caused no stir. Few had looked at her
until she had uttered that sharp cry. There were a score of women under
the brilliantly lighted chandeliers possessed of more spectacular
beauty, Barrow had partly turned in his seat, and now, with careful
breeding, he faced his companion again.

"Do you know her?" Philip asked.

Barrow shook his head.

"No." Then he added: "Did you see what made her cry out like that?"

"I believe so," said Philip, and he turned purposely so that the four
people at the next table could hear him. "I think she twisted her
ankle. It's an occasional penance the women make for wearing these
high-heeled shoes, you know."

He looked at her again. Her form was bent toward the white-haired man
who was with her. The man was staring straight over at Philip, a
strange searching look in his face as he listened to what she was
saying. He seemed to question Philip through the short distance that
separated them. And then the woman turned her head slowly, and once
more Philip met her eyes squarely--deep, dark, glowing eyes that
thrilled him to the quick of his soul. He did not try to understand
what he saw in them. Before he turned his glance to Barrow he saw that
color had swept back into her face; her lips were parted; he knew that
she was struggling to suppress a tremendous emotion.

Barrow was looking at him curiously--and Philip went