"MADAME--I shall have the honor of calling upon you to-day at two o'clock. May I hope that you will receive me? or if the hour does not suit you, that you will fix another? Let me assure you that your slightest wishes will always be commands for "Yours respectfully, "Olivier du Prat." "Very well," she said, "I shall be at home this afternoon." It was impossible for her to answer the letter in writing. Commonplace though it was, she could see that Olivier had written it in a singular state of agitation and decision. Ely knew his handwriting, and she could see from the few lines that the pen had been clenched, almost crushed in his hand. "It is war!" she said to herself. "So much the better. I shall know what to expect in a few hours." But in spite of her native energy, in spite of the power of resistance that her passion gave her, the hours seemed so long to her. Her nerves became more tense, painfully and unceasingly, as she counted the minutes. She had given orders that she was not at home to any one except her dreaded visitor. It seemed that she must regain her strength in a final solitary retirement before engaging in the duel upon which the future of her happiness depended. For this reason she could not completely hide her disappointment when about half-past one she saw Yvonne de Chésy, who had insisted upon being admitted, enter the salon. She had only to give one glance at the face of the pretty little frivolous Parisienne to see that a tragedy was being enacted in her life also, a life that seemed created only to enjoy perpetual happiness. The childish countenance of the young woman was marked by an expression of astounded suffering. Her eyes, usually so sparkling and laughing, had in their blue depths an expression of terror, of stupefaction, as though brought suddenly face to face with some horrible vision. Her gestures betrayed a strained nervousness that was in strange contrast with her habitual gayety and butterfly frivolity. Ely suddenly remembered Marsh's conversation on the boat. She at once guessed that Brion had begun his amorous blackmailing of the poor child. She reproached herself for her momentary impatience, and even with all her own anguish she welcomed the poor girl with all her accustomed grace. Yvonne stammered an excuse for her insistence. "You were quite right in coming in," replied Ely; "you know that I am always at home for you.--But you are all upset. What is the matter?"