d happen; that Ivor and I could
never be as we had been before; that it was all over between us for ever
and ever, and through his fault. But, there at the bottom was the
thought that I _might_ have done him an injustice, because he had begged
me to trust him, and I wouldn't. Just suppose--something in myself kept
on saying--that we should by mere chance meet in Paris, and he should be
able to prove that he hadn't come for Maxine de Renzie's sake! It would
be too glorious. I should begin to live again--for already I'd found out
that life without loving and trusting Ivor wasn't life at all.

He couldn't think I had followed him, even if he did see me in Paris,
because I would be with my Aunt and Uncle, and Lord Robert West; and I
made up my mind to be very nice to Lord Bob, much nicer than I ever had
been, if Ivor happened to run across us anywhere.

Then that very thing did happen, in the strangest and most unexpected
way, but instead of being happier for seeing him, I was ten times more
unhappy than before--for now the misery had no gleam of hope shining
through its blackness.

That was what I told myself at first. But after we had met in the hall
of the hotel, and Ivor had seemed confused, and wouldn't give up his
mysterious engagement, or say what it was, though Lisa chaffed him and
he _must_ have known what I thought, I suddenly forgot the slight he had
put upon me. Instead of being angry with him, I was _afraid_ for him, I
couldn't have explained why, unless it was the look on his face when he
turned away from me.

No man would look like that who was going of his own free will to a
woman with whom he was in love, that same queer something whispered in
my ear. Instead of feeling sick and sorry for myself and desperately
angry with him, it was Ivor I felt sorry for.

I pretended not to care whether he stayed or went, and talked to Lord
Robert West as if I'd forgotten that there was such a person as Ivor
Dundas. I even turned my back on him before he was gone. Still I seemed
to see the tragic look in his eyes, and the dogged set of his jaw. It
was just as if he were going away from me to his death; and his face was
like that of the man in Millais' picture of the Huguenot Lovers. I
wondered if that girl had been broken-hearted because he wouldn't let
her tie round his arm the white scarf that might have saved him.

It is strange how one's mood can change in a moment--but perhaps it is
like that only with women. A