was coming spasmodically.

"Berenice," he said softly, "you are over-wrought; you are not quite
yourself to-night. Do not tell me anything. Indeed, there is no need
for me to know; just as you are I am content with you, and proud to be
your friend."

"Ah!"

She sat down again. He could not see her face, but he fancied that
she was weeping. He himself found his customary serenity seriously
disturbed. Perhaps for the first time in his life he found himself not
wholly the master of his emotions. The atmosphere of the little room,
the perfume of the flowers, the soft beauty of the woman herself,
whose breath fell almost upon his cheek, affected him as nothing of
the sort had ever done before. He rose abruptly to his feet.

"You will be so much better alone," he said, taking her fingers and
smoothing them softly in his for a moment. "I am going away now."

"Yes. Good-by!"

At the threshold he paused. She had not looked up at him. She was
still sitting there with bowed head and hidden face. He closed the
door softly, and went out.

CHAPTER XI

The enthusiasm with which Matravers' play had been received on the
night of its first appearance was, if anything, exceeded on the night
before the temporary closing of the theatre for the usual summer
vacation. The success of the play itself had never been for a moment
doubtful. For once the critics, the general press, and the public,
were in entire and happy agreement. The first night had witnessed an
extraordinary scene. An audience as brilliant as any which could have
been brought together in the first city in the world, had flatly
refused to leave the theatre until Matravers himself, reluctant and
ill-pleased, had joined Fergusson and Berenice before the footlights;
and now on the eve of its temporary withdrawal something of the same
sort was threatened again, and Matravers only escaped by standing up
in the front of his box, and bowing his acknowledgments to the
delighted audience.

It was a well-deserved success, for certainly as a play it was a
brilliant exception to anything which had lately been produced upon
the English stage. The worn-out methods and motives of most living
playwrights were rigorously avoided; everything about it was fresh and
spontaneous. Its sentiment was relieved by the most delicate vein of
humour. It was everywhere tender and human. The dialogue, to which
Matravers had devoted his usual fastidious care, was polished and
sprightly; th