ustom, absorbed in her own thoughts and
dreams. For a moment she stared with uncomprehending eyes. She felt
tired, she wanted to be alone, and she had not heard a single word.
Emile shrugged irritably and repeated his remarks.

"Oh, yes," said Arithelli. She rose slowly, took up the parcel and
retired into seclusion behind the curtains, with which she had screened
off the alcove and so made herself an improvised dressing room. The
rest of the apartment she had altered to look as much like a sitting
room as possible, with the exception of the obtrusive four-poster,
which could not be hidden and which upon entering appeared the most
salient feature visible. There was some tawdry jewellery lying about,
and several pairs of the pale-hued Parisian boots she invariably
affected. Emile made and lighted the inevitable cigarette, while he
fidgeted about, turning over the few French and English novels he could
find with an air of disapproval; for her taste in literature did not
commend itself to him any more than did her taste in finery.

At one period of his life he had steeped himself in books, knowing the
poetry and romance of nearly every nation. Now he disliked them. If
she wanted books he would choose them for her. She would read the
love-songs of the revolutionists to their goddess Liberty, the haunting
words of those who had suffered for a time, and escaped the Siberian
Ice-Hell. The fanaticism of his race and temperament flamed into his
cold eyes as he sat and brooded, and he hardly noticed that Arithelli
had slid into the room in her noiseless fashion, and was standing
before him.

Emile, though little given to being astonished, marvelled at the
unconcern with which she submitted to his critical inspection. She
stood and walked easily, and looked neither uncomfortable nor unnatural
in her boyish array, in which the perfect poise of her body showed
triumphantly.

The black wig, under which she had skilfully hidden her red hair, made
her look more pale than ever. The wide sombrero, tilted backwards,
made a picturesque framing to her oval face, and the _manta_ or heavy
cloak, worn by all Spaniards at night, hung, loosely draped over her
left shoulder. Emile promptly twisted it off.

"This won't do," he said. "The _manta_ is never worn like that.
Besides it's not enough of a disguise. Watch how I put it on." With a
few rough yet dexterous movements he arranged the dark folds so as to
hide her shoulders