nd he went to Mrs. Vivian's the next day
almost for the express purpose of saying to Angela that, decidedly,
she was right. He was admitted by his old friend, the little femme
de chambre, who had long since bestowed upon him, definitively, her
confidence; and as in the ante-chamber he heard the voice of a gentleman
raised and talking with some emphasis, come to him from the salon, he
paused a moment, looking at her with an interrogative eye.

"Yes," said Mrs. Vivian's attendant, "I must tell Monsieur frankly that
another gentleman is there. Moreover, what does it matter? Monsieur
would perceive it for himself!"

"Has he been here long?" asked Bernard.

"A quarter of an hour. It probably does n't seem long to the gentleman!"

"Is he alone with Mademoiselle?"

"He asked for Mademoiselle only. I introduced him into the salon, and
Mademoiselle, after conversing a little while with Madame, consented
to receive him. They have been alone together, as I have told Monsieur,
since about three o'clock. Madame is in her own apartment. The position
of Monsieur," added this discriminating woman, "certainly justifies him
in entering the salon."

Bernard was quite of this opinion, and in a moment more he had crossed
the threshold of the little drawing-room and closed the door behind him.

Angela sat there on a sofa, leaning back with her hands clasped in her
lap and her eyes fixed upon Gordon Wright, who stood squarely before
her, as if he had been making her a resolute speech. Her face wore a
look of distress, almost of alarm; she kept her place, but her eyes gave
Bernard a mute welcome. Gordon turned and looked at him slowly from head
to foot. Bernard remembered, with a good deal of vividness, the last
look his friend had given him in the Champs Elysees the day before; and
he saw with some satisfaction that this was not exactly a repetition of
that expression of cold horror. It was a question, however, whether the
horror were changed for the better. Poor Gordon looked intensely sad and
grievously wronged. The keen resentment had faded from his face, but
an immense reproach was there--a heavy, helpless, appealing reproach.
Bernard saw that he had not a scene of violence to dread--and yet, when
he perceived what was coming, he would almost have preferred violence.
Gordon did not offer him his hand, and before Bernard had had time to
say anything, began to speak again, as if he were going on with what he
had been saying to Angela