, if it has been she who has kept you away from me all
this time."

There was a more personal note in her conversation, the touch of her
fingers upon his arm was warm and firm. Thinking of these things,
Douglas did not hear the rustle of a skirt behind him as they stepped
out upon the pavement. The Countess saw it and kept him talking there
lightly for a moment. When at last she let him go, and he ran upstairs,
he nearly dropped the lamp he was carrying in surprise. For his little
room was empty. Cicely was gone.

CHAPTER XXV

A TRAGIC INTERRUPTION

"So you see, my friend Douglas, we must dine alone. Try to look as
though the calamity were not so great."

The frown did not pass from Douglas's face, although he made the answer
which was expected of him. In a sense he felt that he had been trapped.
Opposite to him was Emily de Reuss in her favourite attitude, leaning a
little forward, her hands clasped around her right knee, rocking herself
backwards and forwards with a slow, rhythmical motion. She wore a gown
of vivid scarlet, soft yet brilliant in its colouring. Her arms and
shoulders were bare, and a string of pearls around the neck was her only
ornament. Dressed exactly as she now was, he had once told her with
honest and boyish frankness that she was the most beautiful woman he had
ever seen. That she, whose wardrobe was a miracle, and jewel-case the
envy of every woman in London, should have chosen to appear to-night in
precisely the same toilette, was at the same time an embarrassment and a
warning to him. The image of Drexley rose up, the sound of his
despairing warning seemed still in his ears. There was a colour in her
cheeks, a light in her eyes--subtle indications that his visit was a
thing looked forward to, no ordinary occasion. They were in one of the
smaller rooms; outside a round table was laid for dinner in the
palm-lined conservatory. Presently they sat there together; through the
glass was a dazzling view of blue sky, starlit and clear; within, a
vista of exotics, whose perfume hung heavy upon the air. Great palms
were above their heads, the silver waters of a fountain rose and fell a
few feet behind. They were served by a single servant in the de Reuss
liveries of grey and silver; everything on the table was daintily
fashioned and perfect of its sort. To Douglas, who at heart was
passionately fond of beautiful things, it seemed after his gloomy garret
a retaste of paradise. Champagne was ser