by the explosion of his own anger. He looked at the bits of
broken ivory on the carpet, and wondered vaguely what they meant. He
felt as though he had been in a dream of which he could not remember the
distorted incidents at all clearly. His breath came irregularly, his
heart fluttered and stood still and fluttered again, and his hands
twitched at the fringe on the arms of the chair. By and bye, the butler
came in to take away the coffee cups and he saw that his master was ill.
Under such circumstances nothing can equal the gentleness of an Italian
servant. The man called some one to help him, and got Reanda to his
dressing-room, and undressed him and laid him upon the long leathern
sofa. Then they knocked at the bedroom door, but there was no answer.

"Do not disturb the signora," said Reanda, feebly. "She wishes to be
alone. We shall not want the carriage."

Those were the only words he spoke that evening, and the servants
understood well enough that something had happened between husband and
wife, and that it was best to be silent and to obey. No one tried the
door of the bedroom. If any one had turned the handle, it would have
been found to be locked. The key lay on the table in the hall, amongst
the visiting-cards. Dalrymple's daughter had inherited some of his quick
instinct and presence of mind. She had felt sure that if she locked the
door of her room when she left the house, her husband would naturally
suppose that she had shut herself in, not wishing to be disturbed, and
would respect her desire to be alone. It would save trouble, and give
her time to get away. He could sleep on the sofa in his dressing-room,
as he actually did, in the illness of his anger, treated as Italians
know how to treat such common cases, of which the consequences are
sometimes fatal. Many an Italian has died from a fit of rage. A single
blood-vessel, in the brain, a little weaker than the rest, and all is
over in an apoplexy. But Reanda was not of an apoplectic constitution.
The calming treatment acted very soon, he fell asleep, and did not wake
till daylight, quite unaware that Gloria was not in the next room,
sleeping off her anger as he had done.

She had gone out in her first impulse to leave the house of the man who
had so terribly insulted her. Under her veil the hot blood scorched her
where the blow had left its red bar, and her rage and wounded pride
chased one another from her heart to her head while with every beating
of