as before, his hands on his knees, the
elbows turned outward, and contemplating Karen's husband with a gaze
that might have softened a heart less steeled than Gregory's.

This, then, was Madame von Marwitz's next move; her next experiment in
seeing what she could "do." Was not Herr Lippheim a taunt? And with what
did he so unpleasantly associate the name of the French actress? The
link clicked suddenly. _La Gaine d'Or_, in its veiling French, was about
to be produced in London, and it was Mlle. Mauret who had created the
heroine's role in Paris. These were the people by means of whom Madame
von Marwitz displayed her power over Karen's life;--a depraved woman (he
knew and cared nothing about Mlle. Mauret's private morality; she was
the more repulsive to him if her morals weren't bad; only a woman of no
morals should be capable of acting in _La Gaine d'Or_;) that impudent
puppy Drew, and this preposterous young man who addressed Karen by her
Christian name and included himself in his inappropriate enthusiasm.

He drank his tea, standing in silence by Karen's side, and avoiding all
encounter with Herr Lippheim's genial eyes.

"It is like old times, isn't it, Franz?" said Karen, ignoring her
husband and addressing her former suitor. "It has been--oh, years--since
I have heard such talk. Tante needs all of you, really, to draw her out.
She has been wonderful this afternoon, hasn't she?"

"_Ah, kolossal!_" said Herr Lippheim, making no gesture, but expressing
the depths of his appreciation by an emphasized solemnity of gaze.

"You are right, I think, and so does Tante, evidently," Karen continued,
"about the _tempo rubato_ in the Mozart. It is strange that Monsieur
Ivanowski doesn't feel it."

"Ah! but that is it, he does feel it; it is only that he does not think
it," said Herr Lippheim, now running his fingers through his hair. "Hear
him play the Mozart. He then contradicts in his music all that his words
have said."

But though Karen talked so pointedly to him, Herr Lippheim could not
keep his eyes or his thoughts from Gregory. "You are a musician, too,
Mr. Jardine?" he smiled, bending forward, blinking up through his
glasses and laboriously carving out his excellent English. "You do not
express, but you have the soul of an artist? Or perhaps you, too, play,
like our Karen here."

"No," Gregory returned, with a chill utterance. "I know nothing about
music."

"Is it so, Karen?" Herr Lippheim questioned, his guilel