ic brougham immediately. But--I sat down again, sick and
despairing, deliberately crushing the generous impulse. I couldn't obey
it. I dared not. By and by, perhaps. If Ivor should be in real pressing
danger, then certainly. But not now.

At four o'clock Raoul came, and was with me for an hour. Each of us
tried to cheer the other. I did all I could to make him hope that even
yet he would have news of the brocade bag and its contents. He, thinking
me ill and tired out, did all he could to persuade me that he was not
miserable with anxiety. At least, he was no longer jealous of Godensky
or of any man, and was humbly repentant for his suspicions of me the
night before. When Raoul is repentant, and wishes to atone for something
that he has done, he is enchanting. There was never a man like him.

At five I sent him away, with the excuse that I must rest, as I hadn't
slept much the night before; but really it was because I feared lest I
should disgrace myself before him by breaking down, and giving him a
fright--or perhaps even by being mad enough to confess the thing I had
done. I felt that I was no longer mistress of myself--that I might be
capable of any folly.

I could not eat, but I drank a little beef-tea before starting for the
theatre, where I went earlier than usual. It would be something to be
busy; and in my part I might even forget for a moment, now and then.

Marianne and I were in my dressing-room before seven. I insisted on
dressing at once, and took as long as I could in the process of making
up; still, when I was ready there was more than half an hour to spare
before the first act. There were letters for me--the kind that always
come to the theatre--but I couldn't read them, after I had occupied
myself with tearing open the envelopes. I knew what they would be: vows
of adoration from strangers; poems by budding poets; petitions for
advice from girls and young men who wanted to go on the stage; requests
from artists who wanted to paint my picture. There were always such
things every night, especially after the opening of a new play.

I was still aimlessly breaking fantastic seals, and staring unseeingly
at crests and coronets, when there came a knock at the door. Marianne
opened it, to speak for a moment with the stage door keeper.

"Mademoiselle," she whispered, coming to me, "Monsieur le Comte Godensky
wishes to see you. Shall I say you are not receiving?"

I thought for a moment. Better see him, perha