e subtle treachery that habit had practised on her--so
stealthy is habit, betraying the body unawares.

Overwhelmed with consternation, she seated herself to consider the
circumstances; little flashes of alarm assisted her. Then a sort of
delicate madness took possession of her, deafening her ears to the voice
of fear. She refused to be afraid.

As she sat there, both hands unconsciously indenting her breast, the
clamour and tumult of her senses drowned the voice within.

No, she would not be afraid!--though the burning perfume was mounting
to her head with every breath and the glow grew steadily in her body,
creeping from vein to vein. No, she would not be afraid. It could never
happen again. She would be on her guard after this.... Besides, the
forgetfulness had been so momentary, the imprudence so very slight ...
and it had helped her, too--it was already making her sleepy ... and she
had needed something to quiet her--needed sleep....

After a long while she turned languidly and picked up the little crystal
flask from the dresser--an antique bit of glass which Rosalie had given
her.

Dawn whitened the edges of the sky; the birds were becoming very noisy.
She lifted the curiously cut relic; an imprisoned fluid glimmered with
pale-violet light--some scented French distillation which Rosalie
affected because nobody else had ever heard of it--an aromatic, fiery
essence, faintly perfumed.

For a moment the girl gazed at it curiously. Then, on deliberate
impulse, she filled another glass.

"One thing is certain," she said to herself; "if I am capable of
controlling myself at all, I must begin now. If I should touch this it
would be excess.... I would like to, but"--she flung the contents from
the window--"I won't. And _that_ is the way I am able to control
myself."

She smiled, set the glass aside, and raised her eyes to the paling
stars. When at last she stretched herself out on the bed, dawn was
already lighting the room, but she fell asleep at once.

It was a flushed and rather heavy slumber, not perfectly natural; and
when Kathleen entered at nine o'clock, followed by Geraldine's maid with
the breakfast-tray, the girl still lay with face buried in her hair,
breathing deeply and irregularly, her lashes wet with tears.

The maid retired; Kathleen bent low over the feverishly parted lips,
kissed them, hesitated, drew back sharply, and cast a rapid glance
around the room. Then she went over to the dressing-tab