yes to the light and warmth and elegance
of it, because of that which she did not see. Now, with a thrill of
pleasure, she saw its doors open. It was possible Eglington might have
come home already. Lord Windlehurst had said that he had left the House.
She did not ask if he was in--it had not been her custom for a
long time--and servants were curious people; but she looked at the
hall-table. Yes, there was a hat which had evidently just been placed
there, and gloves, and a stick. He was at home, then.

She hurried to her room, dropped her opera-cloak on a chair, looked at
herself in the glass, a little fluttered and critical, and then crossed
the hallway to Eglington's bedroom. She listened for a moment. There
was no sound. She turned the handle of the door softly, and opened it. A
light was burning low, but the room was empty. It was as she thought,
he was in his study, where he spent hours sometimes after he came home,
reading official papers. She went up the stairs, at first swiftly, then
more slowly, then with almost lagging feet. Why did she hesitate? Why
should a woman falter in going to her husband--to her own one man of
all the world? Was it not, should it not be, ever the open door between
them? Confidence--confidence--could she not have it, could she not get
it now at last? She had paused; but now she moved on with quicker step,
purpose in her face, her eyes softly lighted.

Suddenly she saw on the floor an opened letter. She picked it up, and,
as she did so, involuntarily observed the writing. Almost mechanically
she glanced at the contents. Her heart stood still. The first words
scorched her eyes.

"Eglington--Harry, dearest," it said, "you shall not go to sleep
to-night without a word from me. This will make you think of me
when...."

Frozen, struck as by a mortal blow, Hylda looked at the signature.
She knew it--the cleverest, the most beautiful adventuress which the
aristocracy and society had produced. She trembled from head to foot,
and for a moment it seemed that she must fall. But she steadied herself
and walked firmly to Eglington's door. Turning the handle softly, she
stepped inside.

He did not hear her. He was leaning over a box of papers, and they
rustled loudly under his hand. He was humming to himself that song she
heard an hour ago in Il Trovatore, that song of passion and love and
tragedy. It sent a wave of fresh feeling over her. She could not go
on--could not face him, and sa