apparent irrelevance, 'how often I
have recalled your beautiful singing; I have always thought of you with
gratitude for that deep pleasure you gave me.'

'O, you shall hear me sing again!' laughed Beatrice. 'Ask Mr. Athel to
tell you something about that. Indeed, it must be good-bye.'

They took each other's hands, but for Emily it was not sufficient; she
stepped nearer, offering her lips.

Beatrice kissed her.

CHAPTER XXV

A FAMILY CONCLAVE

At eleven o'clock on Wednesday morning Beatrice called at the Athels'
house. Receiving the expected information that Wilfrid was not at home,
she requested that Mr. Athel senior might not be disturbed and went to
Wilfrid's study.

Alone in the room, she took from her hand-bag a little packet addressed
to Wilfrid on which she had written the word 'private,' and laid it on
the writing-table.

She appeared to have given special attention to her toilet this morning;
her attire was that of a lady of fashion, rich, elaborate, devised with
consummate art, its luxury draping well the superb form wherein blended
with such strange ardour the flames of heroism and voluptuousness. Her
moving made the air delicate with faint perfume; her attitude as she
laid down the packet and kept her hand upon it for a moment was
self-conscious, but nobly so; if an actress, she was cast by nature for
the great parts and threw her soul into the playing of them.

She lingered by the table, touching objects with the tips of her gloved
fingers, as if lovingly and sadly; at length she seated herself in
Wilfrid's chair and gazed about the room with languid, wistful eyes. Her
bosom heaved; once or twice a sigh trembled to all but a sob. She lost
herself in reverie. Then the clock near her chimed silverly half-past
eleven. Beatrice drew a deep breath, rose slowly, and slowly went from
the room.

A cab took her to Mrs. Baxendale's. That lady was at home and alone,
reading in fact; she closed her book as Beatrice entered, and a placid
smile accompanied her observation of her niece's magnificence.

'I was coming to make inquiries,' she said. 'Mrs. Birks gave me a
disturbing account of you yesterday. Has your headache gone?'

'Over, all over,' Beatrice replied quietly. 'They make too much of it.'

'I think it is you who make too little of it. You are wretchedly pale.'

'Am I? That will soon go. I think I must leave town before long. Advise
me; where shall I go?'

'But you don't think of goi