“I--I may run in to see you this evening,” he said. “You won't mind?” “Come, by all means.” “Well--so-long,” he said diffidently. “So-long, Lyddy.” “So-long,” she repeated, dropping into his manner of speech without thinking. There was a smothering sensation in her breast. He looked back as he strode off in the direction from which they had come. She was at the top of the steps, her finger on the electric button. He wondered why her face was so white. He had always thought of it as being full of colour, rich, soft, and warm. Inside the door Lydia experienced a strange sinking of the heart. Her limbs seemed curiously weak, and she was conscious of a feeling of utter loneliness, such as she had never known before. She looked about her in wonder, as if seeking an explanation for the extraordinary but fleeting impression that she was in a strange house. Never was she to find an interpretation of the queer fantasy that came and went almost in the span of a single breath. “Is Mr Brood at------” she began nervously. A voice at the top of the stairway interrupted the question she was putting to the footman. “Is it you, Lydia? Come up to my room.” The girl looked up and saw Mrs Brood leaning over the banister-rail. She was holding her pink dressing-gown closely about her throat, as if it had been hastily thrown about her shoulders. One bare arm was visible--completely so. “I came to see Mr Brood. Is he------” “He is busy. Come up to my room,” repeated Yvonne, somewhat imperiously. As Lydia mounted the stairs she had a fair glimpse of the other's face. Always pallid--but of a healthy pallor--it was now almost ghastly. Perhaps it was the light from the window that caused it; Lydia was not sure, but a queer greenish hue overspread the lovely, smiling face. The lips were red, very red--redder than she had ever seen them. The girl suddenly recalled the face she had once seen of a woman who was addicted to the drug habit. Mrs Brood met her at the top of the stairs. She was but half dressed. Her lovely neck and shoulders were now almost bare. Her hands were extended toward the visitor; the filmy lace gown hung loose and disregarded about her slim figure. “Come in, dear. Shall we have tea? I have been so lonely. One cannot read the books they print nowadays. Such stupid things, _aïe?_” She threw an arm about the tall girl, and Lydia was surprised to find that it was warm and full of a gentle strength. She felt her flesh tingle with the thrill of contact. Yes, it must have been the light from the window, for Yvonne's face was now aglow with the peculiar iridescence that was so peculiarly her own. A door closed softly on the floor above them. Mrs Brood glanced over her shoulder and upward. Her arm tightened perceptibly about Lydia's waist.