“but what is she like?” asked o’hara impatiently. “man alive, you’ve seen her, haven’t you? sat next to her at dinner at the embassy last night, didn’t you? well, then, for the love of the saints, what’s the creature like?”

de nemours shrugged his shoulders, raising whimsical eyebrows at the slim young giant towering above him.

“mon cher, one cannot put the lady into two words. voyons—she is, as our alfred so charmingly puts it, blonde like the wheat——”

“oh, rot.” the ardent voice of the british representative was curt to the point of rudeness, and de nemour’s smile became exquisitely courteous. “i don’t care whether she’s an albino. she’s the american representative on this committee, and i’m interested in her mental qualifications. is she intelligent?”

“intelligent! ah, my poor friend, she is far, far worse.” his smile grew reminiscent as he lit his cigarette. “she has a wit like a shining sword, and eyelashes of a truly fantastic length.”

178 “and every time her eyes shine you think it’s the sword,” commented o’hara bitterly. “god, this is hideous! i can see her sitting there chattering epigrams and fluttering dimples——”

“you do mrs. lindsay an injustice,” said another voice quietly, and o’hara swung around with a slight start.

“oh, celati, i clean forgot that you were there. i thought that you had never met the lady.”

“unfortunately for me, you are entirely correct. but last night i came in after the dinner for some bridge, and i watched mrs. lindsay with great interest, with great admiration, for more than half an hour. there was a most fat senator from the south talking to her, and she was listening. i say listening, mark. in this great country the most charming of women feel that they have already acquired all desirable information and wisdom and that it is their not unpainful function to disseminate it. i find that it makes intercourse more exciting than flattering. but mrs. lindsay was—listening.”

“you mean to say that she said nothing at all in half an hour?” o’hara’s tone was flatly incredulous.

“oh, si, si, she spoke three times—and if one may judge by the human countenance, i dare to179 wager that that most fat senator thought that never woman spoke more wittily or wisely.”

“and we are to have the jewels?”

“but surely. she said after the first ten minutes, ‘oh, but do go on!’ and after the next, ‘but what happened then?’ and after the third ‘good-night—and thank you.’ may i have a light, de nemours? thanks!”

“and those—those are the epigrams?” o’hara threw back his head and laughed—a sudden boyish shout, oddly at variance with his stern young face.

“ah,” murmured celati, a reminiscent and enigmatic smile touching his lips, “you should have heard her voice!”

o’hara’s smile vanished abruptly. he came perilously near scowling as he stood staring down at the inscrutable latin countenances blandly presented for inspection. de nemours permitted a flicker of genial appreciation to warm his cold eyes, the tribute of a highly distinguished connoisseur. truly, this young irishman, he was of a magnificence. no collector of beauty in all its forms could remain unmoved by the sight of that superb head—that more than superb body. praxiteles hermes turned gypsy! one of those celts with obviously spanish blood running hot and cold through their veins. the cool appraisal180 hovered for the moment on the verge of interest—flickered out. de nemours was quite definitely convinced that not one man in a thousand was deserving of interest, and he had found little in an extremely varied experience to shake his conclusions.

“an exquisite voice,” he agreed pleasantly. “it will turn our dullest statistics to madrigals. the gods are merciful.”

o’hara swung his chair to the table, protest bitter in his stormy gray eyes and on his quick tongue. these damned foreigners!

“you don’t seem to grasp the situation. we are here to settle matters of vital urgency, not to conduct a salon. our reports on the various insurgent activities throughout our countries are to be test cases for the world. we’re not only to report conditions but to suggest solutions. think, man, think! this room may be the laboratory where we will discover the formula to heal a world that’s near to dying. can you turn that into an epigram or a jest?”

“no,” said de nemours softly, and he looked suddenly very tired and very old, “that is no epigram, monsieur o’hara—that is no jest. ah, my country, my country.” his voice was hardly above a whisper, but in the cold and bitter eyes there was something that wailed aloud.

181 “yes, my country,” o’hara retorted fiercely, “but more than that. there are five members of this committee—not four.”

“not four?” celati’s level voice was suddenly sharp.

“not four. there will be represented at this table great britain, france, italy, the united states—and humanity. the greatest of these, gentlemen, will have no voice.”

“au bonheur!” commented de nemours affably. “it, unlike mrs. lindsay, might not sing us madrigals.”

o’hara brought his clenched fist down on the table with a gesture at once despairing and menacing. “now by the lord,” he said, his voice oddly shaken, “if this woman——”

the door into the hall opened very quietly, closed more quietly still, and delilah lindsay stood facing them, her hand still on the knob.

“i knocked twice,” she said softly. “the woodwork must be very thick.”

o’hara rose slowly to his feet. celati and de nemours had already found theirs.

“good evening,” he said, “it’s not quite the hour, i believe.” he was fighting an absurd and overwhelming impulse—an impulse to reply with perfect candour, “the woodwork is not thick at all. were you listening at that door?”

182 for a moment, hardly longer, delilah stood quite still. it was long enough to stamp on every mind present an indelible picture of the primrose-yellow head shining out against the dark panels; therefore, long enough for all practical purposes. she released the door-knob, smiling very faintly.

“it is unfortunate for a man to be late,” she replied, “but unpardonable for a woman. we have so much time of our own to waste that we must be very careful not to waste that of others. bon soir, de nemours.”

she crossed the room with her light, unhurried tread, and stopped, serenely gracious, before o’hara.

“you are the british representative, are you not? it is very stupid of me, but i don’t believe that i have heard your name.”

“you have heard it a good hundred times,” thought the british representative grimly.

“madame, permit that i present to you mr. o’hara.”

“mr. o’hara?” her smile was suddenly as winningly mischievous as a child’s. “that’s a grand name entirely for an englishman.”

o’hara’s eyes were ice gray. “i’m no englishman, mrs. lindsay. but some of us in ireland hold still that we are part of great britain though the colonials may have seen fit to forget it.”

183 the velvety eyes lifted to his were warm with sympathy and concern. “that’s splendid of you; we hear so much bitterness amongst the irish here, and somehow it seems—ugly. after all, as you say, no matter what she may do—or has done—england is england! but i am distressed to hear that there has been disloyalty elsewhere. you think canada—australia?”

“i think neither. it was of other children of england that i was thinking, mrs. lindsay—ungrateful and rebellious children.”

“oh, how stupid. egypt, of course, and india. but, after all, they are only adopted children, aren’t they? perhaps if we give them time they’ll grow to be as loyal and steadfast and dependable as you yourselves. pazienza——”

“i was not——”

she raised a protesting hand, gay and imperious. “no, no, don’t even bother to deny it. you must be discreet, i know—indeed, indeed i honour you for it.” she turned to de nemours, the sparkling face suddenly grave. “but we must not be forgetting; we are here to discuss more vital matters than england’s colonial policy, vital as that may well be. will you forgive us—and present my colleague from italy?”

“mrs. lindsay, signor celati.” both de nemours and celati were struggling with countenances184 not habitually slaves to mirth, but the look of stony and incredulous amazement on o’hara’s expressive visage was enough to undermine the sphinx.

by what miracle of dexterity had she turned the tables on him, leaving him gracefully rebuked for triviality—he, the prophet and crusader? and by what magic had she transformed his very palpable hit at the recalcitrant americans into a boomerang? he drew a long breath. this woman—this woman was so unscrupulously clever that she could afford to seem stupid. that rendered her pretty nearly invulnerable. the stormy eyes grew still—narrowed intently—smiled.

“mrs. lindsay is entirely right,” he agreed. “let us get to business; heaven knows that we have enough of it to get through! mrs. lindsay, we have gone over a certain amount of ground in your unavoidable absence. i regret——”

“i, too, regret it,” she said quietly. “but it is, as you say, unavoidable. i was greatly honoured by the government’s choice, but it was impossible for me to drop the oregon investigations at that stage. if i could have the minutes of the previous meetings——”

“we have no minutes. it has been decided to dispense with the services of a stenographer, as the matters handled are of really incalculable delicacy.185 each of us, however, keeps an abstract of the proceedings, which we check up together, in order to prevent any possible misunderstandings. these are at your disposal, naturally.”

“i see. then if it will not be too much trouble, i’ll run through yours. it will only be necessary to see one lot, if they have been checked, of course. shall we begin where you left off, then? and shall i take this chair? i’m quite ready. i left my hat and cloak and such feminine trappings downstairs. what is under discussion?”

“i’ll have the report for you at the next meeting,” said o’hara. “we were thrashing out the situation in rome. you think that the pope will influence the blacks to vote against the commonist element, celati? that’s unusual, isn’t it? a distinct return to temporal power?”

“unusual, yes. a return to temporal power? possibly. but the vatican contends that it is a spiritual and social matter rather than a political matter. it seems——”

for a moment—for more than a moment o’hara lost track of the even, unemotional voice. he was watching, with a blazing and concentrated curiosity, the face of the american representative. mrs. lindsay was listening to the italian with rapt interest, but o’hara could have sworn that it was the same interest, fascinated and indulgent, which186 an intelligent small child bestows on a grown-up telling fairy tales—an interest which whispers “it’s so pretty—let’s pretend it’s true!” she looked almost like a small child as she sat facing him across the darkly shining table; almost like a small boy. her thick, soft hair was cut short and framed her face like a little medi?val page’s—straight across the low white forehead, curling strongly under about her ears. the blue jacket with its white eton collar and narrow cuffs was boyish, too. and the chin—o’hara pulled himself up, frowning. he was mad! his cousin norah was boyish, if you like, with her honest freckled face and puppy eyes, and red hands—but this small smooth creature could clip her shining hair to its roots—it would only betray the eternal feminine more damningly. no stiff collar would ever do anything but accentuate the velvety darkness of her eyes, the pure beauty of the wistful mouth. possibly that was why she wore it! he caught back a grim smile as the velvet eyes met his.

“it’s desperately awkward, of course,” said the voice that de nemours had accurately described as exquisite. “what solution would you suggest, mr. o’hara?”

“i am not yet prepared to offer a solution,” mr. o’hara informed her a trifle stiffly. what in187 the name of gods and devils had celati been talking about, anyway?

“but after all,” urged mrs. lindsay, “it comes down to a question of two alternatives, doesn’t it? which seems to you the lesser evil?”

“i prefer to wait until we hear a little more about it.” his back was against the wall, but he thoroughly intended to die fighting.

“more about it? what more is there to hear?” her amazement was so wide-eyed that it seemed almost impossible that it was not genuine. but if you had put thumb-screws to him, o’hara would have maintained that in some inexplicable manner the small, demure, deferential fiend across the table was fully aware of the fact that he had not been listening—and fully prepared to make his unsuspicious colleagues aware of it, too.

“part of it did not seem quite clear to me,” he said curtly.

“not clear?” repeated celati, his imperturbable calm severely ruffled, “what do you say, not clear? you find my english at fault, possibly—certainly not my explanation. no child could do that.”

“surely not,” agreed mrs. lindsay, and her voice was as soothing as a cool hand, “i confess that it struck me as—well—limpid. but perhaps mr. o’hara will tell us just what part of it he did not follow?”

188 “put it,” said o’hara, with something perilously like hatred blazing in his eyes, “that i did not follow. we are simply wasting time. will someone repeat the alternatives?”

mrs. lindsay’s gravely solicitous eyes met the look unflinchingly. “surely. all this is simply wasting time, as you say. it comes down to a question as to whether it is preferable for the italian government to countenance or discountenance the papal entry into politics. in the present case it is naturally an asset, but it is possible that it might entail serious consequences. i put it baldly and clumsily, but i am trying to be quite clear.”

“you are succeeding admirably,” o’hara assured her. he was dangerously angry, with the violent and sickening anger of a man who had been made a fool of—and who has richly deserved it. “as you say, it is—limpid. but why not a third alternative? why should the italian government do anything at all? why not simply lie quiet and play safe? it would not be for the first time.”

“mr. o’hara!” celati was on his feet, white to the lips.

mrs. lindsay stretched out her hands with a prettily eloquent gesture of despair. “oh, really!” she said quietly. “is this kind of thing necessary? we are all working together for the same purpose—a189 purpose that has surely too much dignity to be degraded to such pettiness. mr. o’hara, i beg of you——”

“it is not necessary to beg of me.” he leaned across the table, something boyish and winning in his face, his hand outstretched. “i say, celati, i’m no end of a bounder; do let me off this once—i’m bone tired—haven’t slept for nights, trying to think of ways through this beastly mess. i don’t know what i’m saying, and that’s heaven’s truth. is it all right?”

“quite. we are, i think, all tired.”

“men,” mrs. lindsay murmured gently—“men are really wonderful. what two women would have done that?”

o’hara considered her for a moment in silence.

“is that a tribute you are paying us?” he inquired quite as gently.

“why, what else?” again the soft amazement.

“i was seeking information. it struck me as ambiguous.”

mrs. lindsay smiled, that enigmatic smile, wistful and ironic. “it is undue humility on your part, believe me. but shan’t we get back to the matter in hand? monsieur de nemours, what is your opinion?”

“i think there is much in mr. o’hara’s suggestion190 that the government should not be over-precipitate,” replied de nemours pleasantly. he was horribly bored; politics, unless they concerned france, bored him almost beyond endurance, but his ennui was somewhat alleviated by the fact that a very pretty woman was asking him a question. “if silence were maintained for a few weeks, it might well be——”

o’hara was listening—fiercely. he was sure that he could smell violets somewhere; why didn’t the woman take her hands off the table? they lay there, white and fragile and helpless, like broken flowers. why didn’t she wear a wedding ring? why—he jerked his tired mind back savagely to de nemours’ easy, fluent voice, his tired eyes to the worn but amiable mask that the frenchman substituted for a face. why didn’t he stop talking?

“we, in france, have been learning tolerance to god as well as to man,” he was saying. “possibly before the war we have been drastic, but the truly remarkable revival——”

france again! france and italy and oregon—on and on and on—the clock on the mantel clicked away the minutes ruthlessly, the precious minutes that belonged to a dying world. it was striking eleven when mrs. lindsay rose.

“then that’s cleared up, i think,” she said.191 “we begin the regular routine to-morrow morning, don’t we? half-past nine? and here?”

“the house has been placed at my disposal,” replied o’hara formally. “i have placed it at the committee’s. it has proved a convenient arrangement.”

“are the night sessions usual?” she asked.

“usual? i don’t know.” he looked at her wearily; how could any one emerge from that harrowing bickering and man?uvering so fresh and untouched and shining? “we have them when it seems necessary—how often should you say, de nemours?”

“never mind.” the cool fingers were touching his; she was going. “i will keep my evenings free, too—i was simply wondering what to do about some invitations. but nothing else counts, of course, does it? do get a good rest; you look so tired. good-night.” she smiled, nodded the golden head graciously, and was gone.

o’hara stood gazing blankly at the closed door for a moment—then he swung across the room, flung the windows up with a carefully controlled violence, and stood leaning heavily against its frame, his shoulders sagging suddenly, his tired young face turned to the stars.

“you find it too warm?” de nemours inquired courteously.

192 “no—i don’t know. those beastly violets——”

“violets?” de nemours waited with raised brows.

“the first time the poison gas came over at ypres, the chap standing next to me said, ‘funny—there’s a jolly smell of violets about.’ violets—god!” his voice twisted—broke. but after a minute he continued casually: “rotten trick to have your senses go back on you like that, what? they’re the little beggars nature has given us for guards and watchmen and here one of them turns traitor and instead of shrieking ‘careful—careful—the ugliest poison ever found is touching you!’ it whispers ‘see, it smells of violets—oh, england—oh, spring.’ damned traitors, the lot of them—for ever telling us that poison is sweet!”

“why, so it is,” murmured de nemours. “many and many a time. but where were the violets to-night, mon ami?”

o’hara jerked about incredulously, “what! you didn’t smell them? why, every time she moved the air was thick with them!”

“ah, youth!” irony and regret tempered the low laughter. “one must be young indeed to smell violets when a woman moves!”

celati stirred slightly. “a most remarkable woman, this mrs. lindsay.”

193 “remarkable, indeed. there is something about her fine and direct——”

o’hara stared at him aghast. “direct? man, but you’re mad! the woman’s tortuous as a winding lane—and it’s a dark place it leads to, i’m thinking.”

de nemours yielded once more to indulgent mirth, “pauvre ami, those nerves of yours play tricks with you! mrs. lindsay is a woman with an exceptional mind of which she makes exceptional use. she is a beautiful woman, but alas, she does not remind you of it. she is entirely devoted to her work, she shows tact and courage, a rare discretion, a fine simplicity——”

“oh, god!” there was something very like despair in o’hara’s mirth. “simplicity, by the almighty! because she wears blue serge instead of white lace? why, i tell you that she trails yards of chiffon behind her when she goes, that her eyes are for ever smiling at you over a scented fan, that there’s always a rose in her hair and a kiss on her lips. she’s just as simple as eve—and she still has fast hold of the apple!”

celati eyed him a trifle sternly. “you object to women in politics, mr. o’hara?”

“object? my soul, no! my mother and sister are in it up to their eyebrows, and making a rattling good job of it, too. but when they play the game,194 they play it. they leave more trappings than their hats and cloaks downstairs; they let you forget that they are women, and remember that they are human beings.”

“i find masculine women—distasteful.”

“i never said that they were masculine,” o’hara retorted sharply, “i said that they were first and foremost human beings. any other attitude is fatal. i tell you that this woman cares nothing in the world for our game; she is playing her own. and she is playing with loaded dice.”

“and what game is she playing, pray?”

“the oldest game in the world,” said o’hara. “antony’s dark-eyed egypt played it, and that slim witch, mary stuart, and the milliner’s exquisite minx, du barry. only they played behind silken curtains, with little jewelled hands and heads and words. they fight with other weapons nowadays, but the stakes haven’t changed since antony lost a world and won a kiss.”

“and the stakes?”

“why, you are the stake,” said o’hara. “and i—and celati there; they are playing for power—and man is power—and man, poor fool, is their toy. little sisters of circe—they have come out from behind their pale silken curtains and stripped the jewels from the small hands and perfumed195 heads and covered their shining shoulders with harsh stuffs and schooled their light tongues to strange words—and we are blind and mad, and call them comrade!”

“tiens, tiens!” murmured de nemours, “you interest me, o’hara. i confess that i had failed to find this sinister glamour; but you open pleasant vistas in a parched land!”

o’hara gave him a wrenched smile. “that was not my endeavour,” he said briefly.

celati rose, a little stiffly. he was a heavy man, and oddly deliberate for a latin.

“it is late,” he said. “are you coming, de nemours? till to-morrow morning, mr. o’hara; a rivederla.”

“good-night,” returned o’hara. “at nine-thirty, then. good-night.”

he stood staring down absently at the polished surface of the table for a moment or so after the door had closed, and then crossed to the open window. the stars were shining brightly—but they were very far away and cold, the stars. there was something nearer and sweeter in the quiet room behind him, nearer and sweeter even than on that spring day at ypres. he turned from the window with a gesture at once violent and weary. those accursed violets! he could smell them still.

196

ii

“you are taking lilah lindsay in to dinner,” said mrs. dane. “i am kind to you, you see! she’s the most exquisite person.”

“exquisite,” o’hara agreed politely, but there was something in his voice that caused mrs. dane to raise her beautifully pencilled eyebrows. there was no doubt about it, her distinguished guest was in no transport of enthusiasm as to her adored lilah. rumour, for once, was correct! she glanced toward the door, bit her lip, and then, with a swift movement of decision, she turned to the high-backed sofa, her draperies fluttering about her as she seated herself.

“i am so very glad that you came early,” she informed him graciously, and o’hara thought again of her astonishing resemblance to a humming-bird—small and restless and vivid, eternally vibrating over some new flower. “i so rarely get a chance to talk to you—you are most impressively busy, aren’t you? do you see a great deal of lilah?”

“mrs. lindsay has attended all our conferences for the past few weeks.”

“oh, of course, but you can hardly get to know her there, can you?”

“possibly not. however, i have had to content197 myself with that. she is a very busy woman, of course, and my own time is not at my disposal.”

“i suppose not,” murmured mrs. dane mendaciously. she supposed nothing of the sort. “but you are to be pitied, truly. she is a most enchanting person; all the tragedy and cruelty of her life have left her as gay and sweet and friendly as a child. it’s incredible.”

“she has had tragedy and cruelty in her life?”

“oh, it’s been a nightmare—nothing less. she hadn’t been out of her french convent six months when she married that beast, heaven knows why—she had every other man in washington at her feet, but he apparently swept her off them! of course, he had a brilliant future before him——”

“of course,” murmured o’hara.

“what do you mean? did you know curran lindsay?”

“never heard of him,” o’hara assured her. “but do go on: what happened to the beast’s future?”

she shrugged her white shoulders distastefully. “oh, he died in a sanitarium in california several years ago, eaten up with drugs and baffled ambition.”

“and languishing away without his favourite pastime of beating the lovely mrs. lindsay black and blue, i suppose?”

198 mrs. dane controlled a tremor of annoyance. she disliked flippancy and she disliked grimness; combined she found them irritating to a really incredible degree. “curran never subjected lilah to physical maltreatment,” she said coldly, “he subjected her to something a thousand times more intolerable—his adoration.”

“so the beast adored her?”

“he was mad about her. you find that unlikely?”

“on the contrary,” replied o’hara amiably, “i find it inevitable. but what happened to his brilliant career?”

“oh, he was crazily, insanely jealous—and some devil chose to send him an anonymous letter in the middle of a crucial party contest when his presence was absolutely vital, saying that lilah was carrying on an affair with an artist in california, where he’d left her for the winter. he went raving mad—threw up the whole thing—told his backers that they could go to hell, he was going to california—and he went, too.”

“ah, antony, antony!” o’hara said softly.

mrs. dane stared at him, wide-eyed. “why, what do you mean? have you heard the story before?”

“it sounds, somehow, vaguely familiar,” he told her. “there was a woman in egypt—no—that199 was an older story than this. well, what did the beast find?”

“he found lilah,” replied mrs. dane sharply. “the artist had promptly blown his brains out when she had sent him about his business, as she naturally did. but curran’s contest was lost, and so was curran. he might as well have been benedict arnold, from his party’s point of view. he went absolutely to pieces; took to drinking more and more—then drugs—oh, the whole thing was a nightmare!”

“and the artist blew his brains out, you say?”

“yes, it was too tragic. lilah was almost in despair, poor child. he left some dreadful note saying that exiles from paradise had no other home than hell—and that one of them was taking the shortest cut to get there. the newspapers got hold of it and gave it the most ghastly publicity,—you see, everyone had prophesied such wonderful things about his future!”

“still, he had dwelt in paradise,” murmured o’hara.

“dwelt? nonsense—he said that he was an exile!” mrs. dane’s voice was distinctly sharp, but o’hara smiled down at her imperturbably.

“oh, come. it’s a little difficult to be exiled from a spot where you’ve never set foot, isn’t it? no, i rather fancy that mrs. lindsay found consolation200 in the dark hours by remembering that she had not always been unkind to the poor exile—that in paradise for a time there had been moonlight and starlight and sunlight—and that other light that never was, on sea or land. it must have helped her to remember that.”

mrs. dane dropped her flaming eyes to the fan that shook a little in her jewelled hands. perhaps it was best to hold the thunder and lightning that she ached to release; after all, it was clearly impossible that he should actually mean the sinister things that he was implying about her incomparable lilah! it would be an insult to that radiantly serene creature to admit that insult could so much as touch her. she raised defiant eyes to his mocking ones.

“yes, that’s possible; lilah is divinely kind to any beggar that crosses her path—it isn’t in her to hurt a fly, and she must have been gracious to that wretched boy until he made it impossible. but here is monsieur de nemours and the lady herself! let’s go into the next room, shall we? lilah, you lovely wonder, you look sixteen—and young for your age, at that. let’s see, the havilands aren’t here yet, and bob hyde telephoned that he and sylvia would be late——”

o’hara followed the swift, bird-like voice into the next room. by and by it would stop and he201 and lilah would have to find words to fill the silence. what words should he choose? he was too tired to be careful—too tired to think; what devilish fate was thrusting him into a position where he must do both?

she was talking to de nemours, the shining head tilted back a little, the hushed music of her voice drifting across the room to him like a little breeze. she had on a black frock, slim and straight—not a jewel, not a flower, but all of spring laughed and danced and sang and sparkled in that upturned face. o’hara’s hand closed sharply on the back of the chair. what if he were wrong—if this were all some ugly trick that his worn-out nerves were playing? after all, lucia dane had known her for years, and women’s friendships were notoriously exacting. what did he know of her save that she was lovely? ah, lovely, lovely to heartbreak, as she stood there laughing up at de nemours—at once still and sparkling, in that magical way of hers, like sunshine dancing on a quiet pool. was it some devil in him that made him suspect the angel in her? sometimes he thought that he must be going mad.

he had been so sure of himself; no woman was to touch his life until he had moulded it into its appointed shape—and then he would find a clear-eyed comrade who would be proud and humble in his202 glory—some girl, wise and tender and simple, who would always be waiting, quiet-eyed and quiet-hearted when he turned his tired steps to home—someone in whose kind arms he would find peace and rest and quiet. for he would be man, the conqueror, and he would have deep need of these. so he had decreed, during the hard years that brought him to this place where, if he stretched only a little higher, he could touch the shining dreams—and behold, a door had opened and closed, and a yellow-haired girl had come in—and his ordered world was chaos and madness. he knew, with a sense of profoundly rebellious despair, that he was out of hand; his nerves had him, and they were riding him unmercifully, revenging themselves richly for all the days and nights that he had crushed them down and scorned them and ignored them. they had him now, this arrogant young dreamer, out to save a world—they had him now, for all his dreams!

“mr. o’hara, aren’t you taking me in to dinner?”

he started as violently as though she had touched his bare heart with those soft fingers of hers.

“you were a thousand miles away,” said the fairy voice, and the hand rested lightly on his arm. “i hate to bring you back, but they’re all going in, you see. was it a pleasant country that you were playing in?”

203 “pleasant enough,” he told her hardly. “but it’s poor sport looking down on a lost inheritance from the edge of a precipice. did i seem to be enjoying it?”

“you looked as most of us feel on the edge of a precipice, i suppose—a little terrified, and a good deal thrilled. was the lost heritage a pretty place?”

“as pretty as most lost places,” said o’hara.

lilah lindsay leaned toward him, pushing the flowers between them a little aside.

“but why not turn your back on it?” she asked, her eyes laughing into his, friendly and adventurous. “you might climb higher up the mountain, and find some spot so strange and beautiful that it will make the little garden in the valley seem a dull spot well lost.”

“i have already turned my back,” he said.

“i think that i am glad,” said lilah lindsay. “you see, you do not belong in the valley. will you tell me something, mr. o’hara?”

“what is there that i can tell you?”

“oh, many things. i’m not wisdom incarnate, i know, but i have enough wits to realize that stupidity has you fast in his clutch if he can once get you to stop asking questions. i shall go down to my grave with ‘why?’ still on my lips, i promise you!”

204 “aren’t you afraid of exhausting our wretched little hoard of information?”

he felt as though some gigantic hand had released its grasp about his heart. if she would only keep the laughter dancing through her lashes he was safe.

“no, no; it’s inexhaustible, if properly handled.” her voice was dancing, too. “i came across an old formula once; it’s served me well many and many a time, when i’ve seen a resentful and suspicious look in some man’s eyes that says, ‘young woman, you are leading me to believe that you know more than i do. young woman, you are boring me.’ i can drive that look from any man’s eyes in the world!”

“with what alchemy, little magician?”

she leaned closer again, and suddenly he smelt the violets—the room was full of them—the world itself was full of them!

“why, i ask him to spell a word; any nice, simple word like ‘cat’ or ‘dog,’ so that he will be sure to be able to spell it, poor dear! and in thirty seconds the sky is blue, and the birds are singing, and god’s in his heaven and woman in her proper place. it’s white magic, truly!”

“truly,” o’hara laughed back at her, “and truly, and truly, i’m believing you.” he felt light-headed with happiness—oh, surely, this was clear205 candour that she was giving him; all this lovely nonsense was cool water to his fever. lucia dane was right—the rest was ugly madness. “but what was the nice simple word that you were going to ask me to spell?”

“it’s rather a long and difficult word, i’m afraid,” she said gravely. “i was going to ask how you, an irishman, came to be the british representative in our council?”

for a minute all the old, sick suspicion clouded the gray laughter of his eyes—his face grew hard and still—then the unswerving candour of the eyes lifted to his smote him to the heart, and he smiled down reassuringly.

“i suppose that it does seem damned queer. but you see, i happen to be british first and irish second. does that seem impossible?”

“no,” she replied slowly, “but it’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“i suppose so. it’s infernally lonely work, i can tell you. you see, i was born and bred in dublin; all my family think i’m a black traitor. they’re hot against england, and hot against me. they won’t believe that ireland is my heart’s heart. but england—oh, she’s the power and the glory—she can lift the irish high and safe out of their despair, though it’s blind from weeping the poor souls are—they’ll never be seeing it.”

206 the irish in him was burning in his eyes and on his tongue—she stirred and nodded.

“yes,” she said quietly, “i suppose that our southern men who fought for the union met with just such hatred and misunderstanding. and yet they were the ones who loved her best, the proud and lovely south—they who were willing to bear her hatred that they might save her soul.”

“oh, it’s the wonder you are for understanding!” his heart was shaking his voice, but the callous and greatly bored gentleman on the other side of mrs. lindsay suddenly raised an energetic protest.

“see here, lovely lady, are you going to leave me to commune with my soul for the rest of the evening? for the last ten minutes i’ve been trying——”

o’hara turned to the impatient young woman on his left, the ardour still lingering in his face. it lingered so convincingly that he proceeded to thrill her clear through to her small bones; she spent the next few days in a state of dreamy preoccupation that fairly distracted her adoring husband, and continued to cherish indefinitely the conviction that she had inspired a devastating if hopeless passion. it was lucky for her that she never knew that all that pulled o’hara through the next ten minutes was a strong effort of the207 imagination, by which he substituted a head of palest gold for the curly brown one and a voice of silver magic for some rather shrill chatter. and then, suddenly, it was in blessed truth the silver voice.

“you see, i was specially interested in your feeling for ireland because of the situation touched on in your record. that’s serious, isn’t it?”

“serious to desperation.”

“but a great deal of it’s just surmise on your part, i suppose?”

“surmise?” his voice was suddenly weary. “no, no, it’s the rotten truth. all the facts are there, even the names of the leaders in the plot.”

“but how can you be so sure?”

“i can be sure.” there was a grim certainty in his tone that left little room for doubt.

“you use spies?”

“spies? you might call them that. there are three ring-leaders in the conspiracy; the youngest was my room-mate in college.”

“i see.” after a moment in which she sat quite still, clear-eyed and pensive, she asked, “now that you have all the details of the plot, why don’t you crush it?”

“to do anything now would precipitate the bloodiest kind of civil war again. we must move with the greatest care; god help ireland if wind of208 it reaches the other party. they’re straining at the leash like mad dogs already.”

“england must have great faith in your discretion,” said lilah lindsay, and o’hara’s face suddenly flamed like the crusader’s of old.

“god grant it’s not misplaced,” he said simply. “it’s sleepless i’ve gone these many nights looking for a way out—and now i think we’ve found one that’s neither too hard nor too weak. it’s been weary work hunting it. you see it’s not only ireland we must help; it’s all the little, unhappy countries lost in the dark, and like to kill themselves before they find the light. sometimes it breaks the heart in your body to watch them.” his eyes were sombre with all the useless pain in the world.

“then don’t let’s watch them for a little while,” she said gently. “i should think shame on myself for making you talk shop this way; i do, i do! but it’s hard to shake it off, isn’t it?”

“not when you smile like that.”

lilah lindsay smiled like that again.

“now and then,” she murmured, “you are just about six years old.”

“why did you cut off your hair?” demanded o’hara, and his voice was a trifle unsteady.

“why?” she brushed it back with light fingers, gay as a child once more. “oh, it used to take me209 hours to wind it about my head and coil it over my ears; it was way below my waist, you know, and i found it very distracting, to me and—other people. don’t you like it this way?”

“below your waist,” he said. “oh, then you must be a real fairy princess, all shining white and gold.”

“but don’t you like it this way?” asked delilah.

“it’s beautiful,” said o’hara. “but in every foolish heart of us there’s a lady in a tower to whom we call ‘rappunzel, rappunzel, let down your hair’—waiting to go climbing up the shining locks to her heart—and paradise.”

delilah rested her chin on linked fingers, her eyes at once dancing and demure. “how lamentably old-fashioned you are for all your radicalism. shall i let my hair grow?”

“it’s the wonder it must be,” he whispered. “breaking and foaming below your waist.”

“i’ve always thought of it, somehow, as a—a symbol,” she said, her eyes fixed on the coffee that she was slowly stirring. “when i cut it off, i said to each shining length, ‘there you go, folly—and you, frailty—and you, weakness——’”

“and did you never think that your namesake must have cried of old to other shining locks ‘there you go, strength?’”

the new delilah looked suddenly enchantingly210 mischievous. “well, but that was not her own hair! it belonged to a mere man who chose a very vulnerable spot to keep his strength. you have learned wisdom since samson.”

“i wonder!” said o’hara.

“i’ll remember what you have told me,” she laughed up at him. “you seem to hold that woman’s strength, too, is in her hair. perhaps—perhaps you are right, after all. will you come to see me one of these days, and try to convert me?”

they were all standing; he rose, too, his eyes holding her.

“when may i come—to-morrow?”

she smiled back at his swift urgency—then bent the primrose head in assent. o’hara held back the curtains for her to pass through.

“to-morrow,” he told her, his eyes still lit with that incredulous wonder. “to-morrow is a great way off!”

iii

“i’ll just wait here,” he said to the pretty maid. “i’m not dressed for a party. you might tell mrs. lindsay that—that when she’s not too busy, i’d like awfully to speak to her for a minute.”

“very well, mr. o’hara.” her voice had all the impersonal blankness of the well-trained servant, but once on the dark stairs she shook her211 glossy head dismally. she had come to know him well in the past weeks.

“the saints preserve the poor man, it’s fit for a long rest in a pine box he’s looking, and that’s no lie at all! and it’s my fine lady upstairs that is after painting shadows black as the pit under his poor eyes, or my name’s not bridget o’neill. it’s a wicked world entirely, and that’s what it is!”

o’hara stood watching the door through which she had vanished. in a minute—in five minutes—in ten minutes—someone else might stand framed in that door; he could not tear his eyes from it, but stood staring, hands thrust deep into his pockets, very quiet, with fever playing behind the tense stillness of his face. the painted clock on the mantel chimed the hour out twelve times, each stroke a mocking peal of laughter. his shoulders sagged abruptly and he turned from the door. what was the use?—she wasn’t coming. she would never come again.

he crossed to the mantel slowly, noting all the studied grace with desperate tenderness. to whom could it belong but lilah, the little room that he loved, demure and gay—intimate as a boudoir, formal as a study? those slim hands of hers must have placed the bright flowers in the low bowls of powdered venetian glass, and lined the bookcases with deep-coloured books, set the small212 bright fire burning with pine cones, and lighted the waxen candles that were casting their gracious light all about him. the satin-wood desk looked austere enough, with its orderly stacks of paper, its trays of sharpened pencils and shining pens—but the lace pillow in the deep chair by the fire was a little crumpled, there was a half-burnt cigarette in the enamelled tray, and trailing its rosy grace shamelessly across a sombre cushion was a bit of chiffon and ribbon, the needle still sticking in it. it could not have been so long ago that she had been here; all the dainty disorder spoke eloquently of her still.

oh, thrice-accursed fool that he had been to risk even for a second the happiness that for weeks had been fluttering closer to him—the happiness that only a day before had almost closed its shining wings about him! they had been looking at some of her old snapshots of a motor trip through ireland, laughing together in the enchanted intimacy which they had acquired over the begoggled, be-veiled, and beswaddled small creature that she assured him was her exquisite self—and then she had come upon a snapshot that was only too obviously not ireland. it was of a vine-hung terrace, with the sea stretching far out in the distance, and the sunlight dappling through onto the upturned face of a man—quite a young man, in213 white flannels, swinging a careless tennis racquet and laughing in the sun. for a minute her sure fingers had faltered; there, very deliberately, she had picked it up, tearing it into small pieces, dropping them deftly into the dancing fire.

“here’s one of us having tea by the road,” she had continued evenly, but o’hara had not even heard her. his mind was far away, sick with apprehension and suspicion, all the old dim terrors suddenly rampant.

“lilah—it’s unspeakable of me to worry you with this—but i can’t get it out of my mind somehow. will you tell me—will you tell me if they ever found out who sent that anonymous letter to your husband?”

she had stared back at him with strange eyes set in a face from which every trace of emotion had suddenly been frozen.

“the letter? no.” the small remote voice was utterly forbidding. “you are quite right; it is cruel to remind of those times. what difference can it possibly make to you?”

he had fought desperately to find some words that would show her what need his sick soul had of assurance, but he had found none. he could only stare at her dumbly, his wretched eyes assuring that it made, somehow, a huge difference.

“but why?”

214 and he had cried hopelessly, “oh, i may be mad—i think i am—but i can’t get it out of my head. i keep wondering whether you—if you sent——”

“i?” she had cried out as sharply as though he had struck her, and then sat very still, fighting her way back to composure, inch by inch. when she spoke again her voice was very low, incredibly controlled.

“you are implying something that is too monstrous for sanity. may i ask what motive—what possible motive, however abominable—you think that i could have had for wrecking my husband’s career?”

he had whispered, “oh, god forgive me, what motive had antony’s egypt? what motive have any of you for flaunting your power over us? you crack the whip, and we go crashing through the hoop of our dreams, smashing it—smashing it for ever.”

she had risen then, sweeping him from brow to heel with her unrelenting eyes.

“how you know us!” his heart had sickened under that terrible small laugh, cold as frozen water. and she had turned to the door, her head high. “if you can think such things of me—if you can even dream them—your presence here is simply an insult to us both. i must ask you to leave. and unless you realize the grotesque madness of215 your accusation, i must ask you not to come here again. that releases you from dinner to-morrow night, naturally. i don’t think that there is anything more to be said.”

no, there had been nothing more to be said—nothing. he could not remember how he had got himself out of the house—he could not remember anything save a dull nightmare of vacillation and despair, that had finally driven him back to the little room, whipped and beaten, ready to capitulate on any terms—ready for any life that would buy him a moment’s happiness. and now—now she would not come, even to accept his surrender. he turned from the mantel violently, and felt his heart contract in swift panic. a man was watching him intently from the other end of the room—a man with a hateful, twisted face—he caught his breath in a shaken laugh. those damned nerves of his would wreck him yet! it was only his reflection in the cloudy venetian mirror; the firelight and candlelight played strange tricks with it, shadowing it grotesquely—still, even looked at closely, it was nothing to boast of. he stood contemplating it grimly with its tortured mouth and haunted eyes—and then suddenly the air was full of violets. he turned slowly, a strange peace holding his tired heart. she had come to him; nothing else would ever matter again.

216 she was standing in the doorway, a little cloud of palest gray. it was the first time that he had seen her in light colours, and she had done something to her hair—caught it up with a great sparkling comb—it shone like pale fire. her arms were quite full of violets—the largest ones that he had ever seen, like purple pansies. he stood drinking her in with his tired eyes, not even looking for words. it was she who spoke.

“bridget told me that you were here. i thought that you were not coming to-night.”

he shook his head, with a torn and lamentable smile. “you said—until i realized my madness. believe me—believe me, i have realized it, lilah.”

she came slowly into the room, but the nearer she came to him the farther she seemed away, secure in her ethereal loveliness, her velvet eyes turned to ice.

“you have realized it, i am afraid, too late. there are still two tables of bridge upstairs; i have only a few minutes to give you. was there anything that you wished to say?”

he shook his head dumbly, and she sank into the great chair, stifling a small yawn perfunctorily.

“oh, i’m deathly tired. it’s been a hideous evening, from beginning to end. come, amuse me, good tragedian, make me laugh just once, and i217 may forgive you. i may forgive you, even though you do not desire it.” again that fleeting smile, exquisite and terrible.

but o’hara was on his knees beside her.

“delilah, don’t laugh, don’t laugh—i’m telling you the laughter is dead in me. i’d rather see you weeping for the poor, blind fool who lost the key to paradise.”

“who threw it away,” she amended, touching the violets with light fingers. “but never forget, it’s better not to have set your foot within its gates than to be exiled from it. never forget that, my tragedian.”

he raised his head, haggard and alert. “lilah, what do you mean?”

“why, nothing—only lucia dane was here for dinner and she thought it—strange—that you and i should be the gossip of washington these days. when she had finished with what you had said to her, i thought it strange, too. and i assured her that there would be no more cause for gossip.”

“i was mad when i talked to that little fool,” he told her fiercely. “clean out of my head trying to fight off your magic. that was the first night—the first night that i owned to myself that i loved you.”

“your madness seems to be recurrent,” she218 murmured. “you should take measures against it.”

“i have taken measures. it shall never touch you again. i know now that it has simply been an obsession—a hallucination—anything in heaven or hell that you want to call it. you have all my trust, all my faith.”

“it is a terrible thing not to trust a woman,” she said. “more terrible than you know. sometimes it makes her unworthy of trust.”

“not you,” he whispered. “never.”

“we’re delicate machinery, tragedian. touch a hidden spring in us with your clumsy fingers and the little thing that was ticking away as faithfully and peacefully as an alarm-clock stops for a minute—and then goes on ticking. only it has turned to an infernal machine—and it will destroy you.”

she was silent for a moment, her fingers resting lightly on that bowed head. when she spoke again her voice was gentle. “last night, after you had gone, i remembered what you had said about antony and his egypt, and i found the play. parts of it still go singing through my head. they loved each other so, those two magnificent fools. he finds her treacherous a hundred times, and each time forgives her, and loves her again—and she repays him beyond belief—far, far beyond219 power and treachery and death. do you remember his cry in that first hour of his disaster?

“‘o, whither hast thou led me, egypt?’

“and when she weeps for pardon, how he tells her

“‘fall not a tear, i say: one of them rates

all that is won and lost. give me a kiss,

even this repays me.’

“though she has ruined him utterly—though he sees it and cries aloud

“‘o this false soul of egypt! this grave charm,—

whose eye becked forth my wars, and called them home,

like a right gipsy hath at false and loose

beguiled me to the very heart of loss.’

“still, still his last thought is to reach her arms.

‘i am dying, egypt, dying, only

i here importune death awhile, until

of many thousand kisses the poor last

i lay upon thy lips.’”

“why, he was well repaid,” said that strange, humble voice.

“i am glad that you feel that,” delilah told him, and she rose swiftly. “would you like to kiss me? you see, i have ruined you.”

o’hara stumbled to his feet.

“what are you saying?” he whispered, a dreadful incredulity driving the words through his stiffened lips.

220 “that i have ruined you. i have sent your notes on the irish situation to the other party.”

“you are mad.”

“no, no.” she shook her head reassuringly. “quite sane. i didn’t address them in my own handwriting, naturally. the envelope is typewritten, but the notes are in long-hand; yours. the english government will be forced to believe that for once it has misplaced its trust—but ireland should pay you well—if she lives through civil war.”

“by god——” his voice failed him for a moment. “this is some filthy dream.”

“no dream, believe me.” she came closer to him, radiant and serene. “did you think that i was a yellow-headed doll, that you could insult me beyond belief, mock me to my friends, slander me to the committee of which i was a member? monsieur de nemours was good enough to warn me against you, also. i am no doll, you see; i happen to be a woman. we have not yet mastered that curiously devised code that you are pleased to term honour—a code which permits you to betray a woman but not a secret—to cheat a man out of millions in business but not out of a cent at cards. it’s a little artificial, and we’re ridiculously primitive. we use lynch-law still; swift justice with the nearest weapon at hand.”

221 o’hara was shaking like a man in a chill, his voice hardly above a whisper. “what have you done? what have you done, delilah?”

“don’t you understand?” she spoke with pretty patience, as though to some backward child. “i have ruined you—you and your ireland, too. i sent——”

and suddenly, shaken and breathless, she was in his arms.

“oh, ireland—ireland and i!” but even at that strange cry she never stirred. “it’s you—you who are ruined, my magic—and it’s i who have done it, driving you to this ugly madness.” he held her as though he would never let her go, sheltering the bowed golden head with his hand. “though i forgive you a thousand thousand times, how will you forgive yourself, my little love? you who would not hurt a flower, where will you turn when you see what you have done?”

he could feel her tears on his hand; she was weeping piteously, like a terrified child.

“oh, you do love me, you do love me! i was so frightened—i thought that you would never love me.”

he held her closer, infinitely careful of that shining fragility.

“i love nothing else.”

“not ireland?”

222 he closed his hunted eyes, shutting out memory.

“i hated ireland,” wept the small voice fiercely, “because you loved her so.”

“hush, hush, my heart.”

“but you do—you do love me best?”

“god forgive me, will you make me say so?”

there was a moment’s silence, then something brushed his hand, light as a flower, and delilah raised her head.

“no, no, wait.” she was laughing, tremulous and exquisite. “did you think—did you think that i had really sent your notes?”

o’hara felt madness touching him; he stared down at her, voiceless.

“but of course, of course, i never sent them. they are upstairs; wait, i’ll get them for you—wait!”

she slipped from his arms and was half way to the door before his voice arrested her.

“lilah!”

“yes?”

“you say—that you have not sent the notes?”

“darling idiot, how could you have thought that i would send them? this is life, not melodrama!”

“you never—you never thought of sending them?”

“never, never.” her laughter rippled about him. “i wanted to see——”

223 but he was groping for the mantel, sick and dizzy now that there was no need of courage. delilah was at his side in a flash, her arms about him.

“oh, my dear!” he had found the chair but she still clung to him. “what is it? you’re ill—you’re ill!”

someone was coming down the stairs; she straightened to rigidity, and was at the door in a flash.

“captain lawrence!”

the young englishman halted abruptly—wheeled.

“captain lawrence, mr. o’hara is here; he had to see me about some papers, and he has been taken ill. he’s been overworking hideously lately. will you get me some brandy for him?”

“oh, i say, what rotten luck!” he lingered, concern touching his pleasant boyish face. “where do i get the brandy, mrs. lindsay?”

“ask lucia dane, she knows how to get hold of the maids. and hurry, will you?”

she was back at his side before the words had left; he could feel her fingers brushing his face like frightened butterflies, but he did not open his eyes. he was too mortally tired to lift his lids.

“here you are, mrs. lindsay. try this, old son. steady does it.”

224 he swallowed, choked, felt the warm fire sweep through him, tried to smile, tried to rise.

“no, no, don’t move—don’t let him move, captain lawrence.”

“you stay where you are for a bit, young feller, my lad. awfully sorry that i have to run, mrs. lindsay, but they telephoned for me from the embassy. some excitement about turkey, the devil swallow them all. good-night—take it easy, o’hara!”

“oh, captain lawrence!” he turned again. “have you the letter that i asked you to mail?”

“surely, right here. i’ll post it on my way over.”

“thanks a lot, but i’ve decided not to send it, after all.” she stretched out her hand, smiling. “it’s an article on women in public life, and it’s going to need quite a few changes under the circumstances.”

“the circumstances?”

“yes. you might tell them at the embassy—if they’re interested. i’m handing in my resignation on the international committee to-morrow.”

o’hara gripped the arm of his chair until he felt it crack beneath his fingers. captain lawrence was staring at her in undisguised amazement.

“but i say! how in the world will they get along without you?”

225 “oh, they’ll get along admirably.” she dismissed it as easily as though it were a luncheon engagement. “that young lyons is the very man they need; he’s really brilliant and a perfect encyclop?dia of information. i’ll see you at the embassy on friday, won’t i? good-night.”

her arms were about o’hara before the hall door slammed.

“you’re better now? all right? oh, you frightened me so! it wasn’t that foolish trick of mine that hurt you? say no, say no—i couldn’t ever hurt you!”

“never. i should be whipped for frightening you.” his arms were fast about her, but his eyes were straying. what had she done with that letter? he had caught a glimpse of it, quite a bulky letter, in a large envelope, with a typewritten address—typewritten.

“have you noticed my hair?” the magic voice was touched with gayety again, and o’hara brushed the silken mist with his lips, his eyes still seeking. “i remembered what you said, you see; it grows most awfully fast—one of these days it will be as long as rappunzel’s or melisande’s. will you like it then?”

ah, there it was, face down on the lacquer table. he drew a deep breath.

226 “lilah, that letter—what did you say was in that letter?”

there was a sudden stillness in the room; he could hear the painted clock ticking clearly. then she spoke quietly:

“it’s an article that i have written on women in public life. didn’t you hear me telling captain lawrence?”

“will you let me see it?”

again that stillness; then, very gently, delilah pushed away his arms and rose.

“no,” she said.

“you will not?”

“no.” the low voice was inflexible. “i know what you are thinking. you are thinking that those are the irish notes; that i had fully intended to send them this evening; that it was only an impulse of mine that saved you, as it would have been an impulse that wrecked you. you are thinking that next time it may fall differently. and you are willing to believe me guilty until i am proved innocent. you have always been that—always.”

he bowed his head.

“i could hand you that envelope and prove that i am entirely innocent, but i’ll not purchase your confidence. it should be a gift—oh, it should be more. it is a debt that you owe me. are you going to pay it?”

227 o’hara raised haggard eyes to hers.

“how should i pay it?”

“if you insist on seeing this, i will show it to you; but i swear to you that i will never permit you to enter this house again; i swear it. do you believe me?”

“yes.”

“if you will trust me, i will give you your notes, love you for the rest of my life—marry you to-morrow.” she went to the table, picked up the envelope, and stood waiting. “what shall i do?”

he rose unsteadily, catching at the mantel. no use—he was beaten.

“will you get me the notes?”

he saw her shake then, violently, from head to foot, but her eyes never wavered. she nodded, and was gone.

he stood leaning against the mantel, his dark head buried in his arms. beaten! he would never know what was in that envelope—never, never. she could talk to all eternity about faith and trust; he would go wondering all his life through. if he had stood his ground—if he had claimed the envelope and she had been proven innocent, he would have lost her but he would have found his faith. he had sold his soul to purchase her body. the painted clock struck once, and he raised his head——

228 no, no, he was mad. she was right—entirely, absolutely right—she was just and merciful, she who might have scourged him from her sight for ever. what reason in heaven or earth had he to distrust her? because her voice was silver and her hair was gold? because violets scattered their fragrance when she stirred? oh, his folly was thrice damned. if he had a thousand proofs against her, he should still trust her. what was it that that chap browning said?

“what so false as truth is

false to thee?”

that was what love should be—not this sick and faltering thing——

“here are the notes,” said delilah’s voice at his shoulder, and her eyes added, wistful and submissive: “and here am i.”

o’hara took them in silence, his fingers folding them mechanically, measuring, weighing, appraising. the envelope could have held them easily——

she turned from him with a little cry.

“oh, you are cruel, cruel!”

he stood staring at her for a moment—at the small, desolate figure with its bowed head, one arm flung across her eyes like a stricken child—and suddenly his heart melted within him. she was229 weeping, and he had made her weep. he took a swift step toward her, and halted. in the mirror at the far end of the room he could see her, dimly caught between firelight and candlelight, shadowy and lovely—in the mirror at the far end of the room she was smiling, mischievous and tragic and triumphant. he stared incredulously—and then swept her to him despairingly, burying his treacherous eyes in the bright hair in which clustered the invisible violets.