hort space, they confronted
each other, no longer as enemies--so it seemed to her--but as beings of
different language who had forgotten the few words they had learned of
each other's speech.

Darrow broke the silence. "It's best, on all accounts, that I should
stay till tomorrow; but I needn't intrude on you; we needn't meet again
alone. I only want to be sure I know your wishes." He spoke the short
sentences in a level voice, as though he were summing up the results of
a business conference.

Anna looked at him vaguely. "My wishes?"

"As to Owen----"

At that she started. "They must never meet again!"

"It's not likely they will. What I meant was, that it depends on you to
spare him..."

She answered steadily: "He shall never know," and after another interval
Darrow said: "This is good-bye, then."

At the word she seemed to understand for the first time whither the
flying moments had been leading them. Resentment and indignation died
down, and all her consciousness resolved itself into the mere visual
sense that he was there before her, near enough for her to lift her
hand and touch him, and that in another instant the place where he stood
would be empty.

She felt a mortal weakness, a craven impulse to cry out to him to stay,
a longing to throw herself into his arms, and take refuge there from the
unendurable anguish he had caused her. Then the vision called up another
thought: "I shall never know what that girl has known..." and the recoil
of pride flung her back on the sharp edges of her anguish.

"Good-bye," she said, in dread lest he should read her face; and she
stood motionless, her head high, while he walked to the door and went
out.

BOOK V

XXX

Anna Leath, three days later, sat in Miss Painter's drawing-room in the
rue de Matignon.

Coming up precipitately that morning from the country, she had reached
Paris at one o'clock and Miss Painter's landing some ten minutes later.
Miss Painter's mouldy little man-servant, dissembling a napkin under his
arm, had mildly attempted to oppose her entrance; but Anna, insisting,
had gone straight to the dining-room and surprised her friend--who ate
as furtively as certain animals--over a strange meal of cold mutton and
lemonade. Ignoring the embarrassment she caused, she had set forth the
object of her journey, and Miss Painter, always hatted and booted for
action, had immediately hastened out, leaving her to the solitude of
the bare firel