She smiled, patted his hand gently, and allowed her swimming eyes to rest on his for an instant to complete the conquest. Then she motioned him away. Brood's voice was heard in the doorway. She had, however, planted an insidious thing in Frederic's mind, and it would grow. Her husband re-entered the room, his arm linked in Lydia's. Frederic was at the table lighting a cigarette. “You did not mean all that you said a moment ago, Yvonne,” said Brood levelly. “Lydia misinterpreted your jest. You meant nothing unkind, I am sure.” He was looking straight into her rebellious eyes. The last gleam of defiance died out of them as he spoke. “I am sorry, Lydia darling,” she said, and reached out her hand to the girl who approached reluctantly, uncertainly. “I confess that I was jealous. Why shouldn't I be jealous? You are so beautiful, so splendid.” She drew the girl down beside her. “Forgive me, dear.” Lydia, whose honest heart had been so full of resentment the moment before, could not withstand the humble appeal in the voice of the penitent. She smiled, first at Yvonne, then at Brood, and never quite understood the impulse that ordered her to kiss the warm, red lips that so recently had offended. “James dear,” fell softly, alluringly, from Yvonne's now tremulous lips. He sprang to her side. She kissed him passionately. “Now we are all ourselves once more,” she gasped a moment later, her eyes still fixed inquiringly on those of the man beside her. “Let us be gay! Let us forget! Come, Frederic! Sit here at my feet. Lydia is not going home yet. Ranjab, the cigarettes!” Frederic, white-faced and scowling, remained at the window, glaring out into the rain-swept night. A steady sheet of raindrops thrashed against the window-panes. “Hear the wind!” cried Yvonne, after a single sharp glance at his tall, motionless figure. “One can almost imagine that ghosts from every graveyard in the world are whistling past our windows. Should we not rejoice? We have them safely locked outside. There are no ghosts in here to make us shiver--and--shake.” The sentence that began so glibly trailed off in a slow crescendo, ending abruptly. Ranjab was holding the lighted taper for her cigarette. As she spoke her eyes were lifted to his dark, saturnine face. She was saying there were no ghosts when his eyes suddenly fastened on hers. In spite of herself her voice rose in response to the curious dread that chilled her heart as she looked into the shining mirrors above her. She shivered as if in the presence of death! For an incalculably brief period their gaze remained fixed and steady, each reading a mystery. Then the Hindu lowered his heavy lashes and moved away. The little by-scene did not go unnoticed by the others, although its meaning was lost. “There's nothing to be afraid of, Yvonne,” said Brood, pressing the hand which trembled in his. “Your imagination carries you a long way. Are you really afraid of ghosts?”