long the walks and upon the
benches she could see the glow of white dresses and could catch the
sound of laughter. Far off somewhere in the shrubbery, she thought she
heard a band playing. To the northeast lay the lake, shimmering under
the moon, dotted here and there with the coloured lights of steamers.

She turned back into the room. The great house was still. From all its
suites of rooms, its corridors, galleries, and hallways there came no
sound. There was no one upon the same floor as herself. She had read
all her books. It was too late to go out--and there was no one to go
with. To go to bed was ridiculous. She was never more wakeful, never
more alive, never more ready to be amused, diverted, entertained.

She thought of the organ, and descending to the art gallery, played
Bach, Palestrina, and Stainer for an hour; then suddenly she started
from the console, with a sharp, impatient movement of her head.

"Why do I play this stupid music?" she exclaimed. She called a servant
and asked:

"Has Mr. Jadwin come in yet?"

"Mr. Gretry just this minute telephoned that Mr. Jadwin would not be
home to-night."

When the servant had gone out Laura, her lips compressed, flung up her
head. Her hands shut to hard fists, her eye flashed. Rigid, erect in
the middle of the floor, her arms folded, she uttered a smothered
exclamation over and over again under her breath.

All at once anger mastered her--anger and a certain defiant
recklessness, an abrupt spirit of revolt. She straightened herself
suddenly, as one who takes a decision. Then, swiftly, she went out of
the art gallery, and, crossing the hallway, entered the library and
opened a great writing-desk that stood in a recess under a small
stained window.

She pulled the sheets of note paper towards her and wrote a short
letter, directing the envelope to Sheldon Corthell, The Fine Arts
Building, Michigan Avenue.

"Call a messenger," she said to the servant who answered her ring, "and
have him take--or send him in here when he comes."

She rested the letter against the inkstand, and leaned back in her
chair, looking at it, her fingers plucking swiftly at the lace of her
dress. Her head was in a whirl. A confusion of thoughts, impulses,
desires, half-formed resolves, half-named regrets, swarmed and spun
about her. She felt as though she had all at once taken a leap--a leap
which had landed her in a place whence she could see a new and terrible
country, an unfamiliar