r's life came suddenly before her; she seemed to hear
again his last words to herself, to see the scene with Legros,
the cards tumbling in a heap on the floor, his dying face. A
kind of terror seized her, and she stood gazing as though
fascinated at the dozen respectable gentlemen dealing their
cards and marking their games, till Graham's step and voice
aroused her.

"Here is your shawl, Madelon," he said, putting it round her
shoulders; "did you think I was ever coming? That woman----"

He stopped short in his speech; she turned round and looked at
him with her white, scared face, her wide-open, brown eyes, as
if she had seen a ghost. Ghosts enough, indeed, our poor
Madelon had seen during these last five minutes; but they were
not visible to Graham, who stood sufficiently astonished and
alarmed, as she turned abruptly away again, and disappeared
through the glass door into the garden.

"Stay, Madelon!" he cried and followed her out into the night.

It was raining, he found, as soon as he got outside. The
garden had been prettily illuminated with coloured lamps hung
along the verandah, and amongst the trees and shrubs, but they
were nearly all extinguished now. It was a bleak mournful
night, summer time though it was, the wind moaning and
sighing, the rain falling steadily. Graham, as he passed
quickly along the sodden path, had a curious sensation of
having been through all this before; another sad, rainy night
came to his mind, a lighted street, a dark avenue, and a
little passionate figure flying before him, instead of the
tall, white one who moved swiftly on now, and finally
disappeared beneath the long shoots of climbing plants that
overhung a sort of summer-house at the end of a walk. The
lamps were not all extinguished here; the wet leaves glistened
as the wind swept the branches to and fro, and Horace, as he
entered, could see Madelon sitting by the little table,
trembling and shivering, her hair all blown about and shining
in the uncertain light. What had suddenly come over her?
Graham was fairly perplexed.

"Madelon," he said, going up to her, "what is the matter? has
anything happened, or any one vexed you?"

"_Non, non_," she cried, jumping up impatiently, and speaking in
French as she sometimes did when excited, "_je n'ai rien--rien du
tout;_ leave me, Monsieur Horace, I beg of you! How you weary
me with your questions! I was rather hot, and came here for a
little fresh air. That was all."

"Y