on the pillow and outsleep the day!

Nevertheless, when she had exerted herself, and was clad in the fresh
garments of spring, the mirror came to her help. She was pale yet; but
pallor lends distinction to features that are not commonplace, and no
remark of man or woman had ever caused her to suspect that her face was
ordinary. She posed before the glass, holding her violin, and the
picture seemed so effective that she began to regain courage. A
dreadful thing had happened--perhaps more dreadful than she durst
imagine--but her own part in it was nothing worse than folly and
misfortune. She had no irreparable sin to hide. Her moment of supreme
peril was past, and would not return. If now she could but brace her
nerves, and pass successfully through the ordeal of the next few hours,
the victory for which she had striven so hard, and had risked so much,
would at length be won. Everything dark and doubtful she must try to
forget. Success would give her new strength; to fail, under any
circumstances ignominious, would at this crisis of her life be a
disaster fraught with manifold and intolerable shame.

She played a few notes. Her hand was steady once more; she felt her
confidence revive. Whenever she had performed before an audience, it
had always seemed to her that she must inevitably break down; yet at
the last minute came power and self-control. So it would be today. The
greater the demand upon her, so much the surer her responsive energy.
She would not see faces. When all was over, let the news be disclosed,
the worst that might be waiting; between now and then lay an infinity
of time.

So, when she went downstairs to meet Harvey, the change in her
appearance surprised him. He had expected a bloodless countenance, a
tremulous step; but Alma came towards him with the confident carriage
of an earlier day, with her smile of superiority, her look that invited
or demanded admiration.

'Well? You won't be ashamed of me?'

'To tell the truth,' said Harvey, 'I was going because I feared someone
would have to look after you in the middle of the affair. If there's no
danger of that, I think I shall not go into the place at all.'

'Why?'

'I don't care for it. I prefer to hear you play in private.'

'You needn't have the least fear for me,' said Alma loftily.

'Very well. We'll lunch together, as we arranged, and I'll be at the
door with a cab for you after the people have gone.'

'Why should you trouble?'

'I had ra