yours or mine, was
not for sale.

"Yas'm--certny ... Yas'm. Or, Miss Cyahlile--I _mout_ just say we 're
mighty sorry--but not knowin' he was expected, and you feelin' po'ly an'
all--you just this minute went to baid--an'--"

"No!--do as I say," said the young mistress, quite sharply. But, as her
faithful friend turned away, she added in another voice: "You're a good
girl, Flora.... Be sure to say just for a few minutes."

After the solitude and meditation came action at speed.

The maid vanished, the mistress slipped off her flowered negligee and
drew hot water in the bathroom. She proceeded, with no want of
experience or skill, to make herself beautiful for her lover: the lover
who had seemed over a gulf from her this afternoon, and now what worlds
away.... And if the rites were done somewhat hurriedly perforce, there
was no lack of conscientiousness here. She, who had said that she had
never paid her way through life, could only pay in what coin she had....

Events moved quickly. Flora, who was "on the doorbell" to-night because
of the dinner-party, was soon back to say that Mr. Canning was in the
library. She was sent ahead to make sure that the coast was clear.

Cally, in a soft black house-dress with an apricot waist-ribbon, went
down the back-stairs. She passed through the busy pantry, where Moses
and Annie were just ready for an expert entrance with the fish; went
through the back hall, where Flora stood flashing her teeth beside the
closed door of the dining-room; came to the side door of the library.
This door Cally opened, and shut it again behind her....

It was a massive and dark-beamed room, softened now with the light of
lamps and fire. Hugo stood in the middle of it, turning quickly at the
sound of the door. He, whose afternoon had taken a course so different
from his planning, still wore the clothes he had had on then, a dark
gray walking-suit which well became his fine-figured masculinity. Over
his brow there hovered a vexed business frown, nor did this altogether
vanish as he advanced upon Carlisle, a lover's welcome springing
imperiously into his eyes.

"Isn't this the devil's own luck?... Deming insists it all depends on
me."

"You go at nine-thirty?"

"He says he'll manacle me if necessary. It's confoundedly important, you
see--there are large interests involved. You know I wouldn't go
otherwise. Don't you?"

"And to-morrow you go on to New York?"

"No!--There's only the remotest chan