Her query followed a long period of silence on his part. He had been suggesting alterations in her notes as she read them to him, and there were frequent lulls when she made the changes as directed. Without looking at him she felt, rather than knew, that he was regarding her fixedly from his position opposite. The scrutiny was disturbing to her. She hazarded the question for want of a better means of breaking the spell. Of late he had taken to watching her with moody interest. She knew that he was mentally commenting on the changes he could not help observing in her appearance and her manners. This intense, though perhaps unconscious, scrutiny annoyed her. Her face was flushed with embarrassment, her heart was beating with undue rapidity. Brood started guiltily. “Your hair?” he exclaimed. “Oh, I see. You women always feel that something is wrong with it. I was thinking of something else, however. Forgive my stupidity. We can't afford to waste time in thinking, you know, and I am a pretty bad offender. It's nearly half-past ten. We've been hard at it since eight o'clock. Time to knock off. I will walk around to your apartment with you, my dear. It looks like an all-night rain.” He went up to the window and pulled the curtains aside. Her eyes followed him. “It's such a short distance, Mr Brood,” she said. “I am not afraid to go alone.” He was staring down into the court, his fingers grasping the curtains in a rigid grip. He did not reply. There was a light in the windows opening out upon Yvonne's balcony. “I fancy Frederic has come in from the concert,” he said slowly. “He will take you home, Lydia. You'd like that better, eh?” He turned toward her, and she paused in the nervous collecting of her papers. His eyes were as hard as steel, his lips were set. “Please don't ask Frederic to------” she began hurriedly. “They must have left early,” he muttered, glancing at his watch. Returning to the table he struck the big, melodious gong a couple of sharp blows. For the first time in her recollection it sounded a jangling, discordant note, as of impatience. She felt her heart sink; an oppressing sense of alarm came over her. “Good night, Mr Brood. Don't think of coming home with------” “Wait, Frederic will go with you.” It was a command. Ranjab appeared in the doorway. “Have Mrs Brood and Mr Frederic returned, Ranjab?” “Yes, _sahib_. At ten o'clock.” “If Mr Frederic is in his room, send him to me.” “He is not in his room, _sahib_.” The two, master and man, looked at each other steadily for a moment. Something passed between them. “Tell him that Miss Desmond is ready to go home.” “Yes, _sahib_.” The curtains fell. “I prefer to go home alone, Mr Brood,” said Lydia, her eyes flashing. “Why did you send------”