“Very likely,” murmured Mrs. Sin. “I know why you don’t smoke. You have promised your pretty little friend that you will stay awake and see that nobody tries to cut her sweet white throat.” Sir Lucien listened imperturbably. “She is certainly nervous,” he admitted coolly. “I may add that I am sorry I brought her here.” “Oh,” said Mrs. Sin, her voice rising half a note. “Then why do you bring her to the House?” “She made the arrangement herself, and I took the easier path. I am considering your interests as much as my own, Lola. She is about to marry Monte Irvin, and if his suspicions were aroused he is quite capable of digging down to the ‘Hundred Raptures.’” “You brought her to Kazmah’s.” “She was not at that time engaged to Irvin.” “Ah, I see. And now everybody says you are changed. Yes, she is a charming friend.” Pyne looked up into the half-veiled dark eyes. “She never has been and never can be any more to me, Lola,” he said. At those words, designed to placate, the fire which smouldered in Lola’s breast burst into sudden flame. She leapt to her feet, confronting Sir Lucien. “I know! I know!” she cried harshly. “Do you think I am blind? If she had been like any of the others, do you suppose it would have mattered to _me?_ But you _respect_ her—you _respect_ her!” Eyes blazing and hands clenched, she stood before him, a woman mad with jealousy, not of a successful rival but of a respected one. She quivered with passion, and Pyne, perceiving his mistake too late, only preserved his wonted composure by dint of a great effort. He grasped Lola and drew her down on to the arm of the chair by sheer force, for she resisted savagely. His ready wit had been at work, and: “What a little spitfire you are,” he said, firmly grasping her arms, which felt rigid to the touch. “Surely you can understand? Rita amused me, at first. Then, when I found she was going to marry Monte Irvin I didn’t bother about her any more. In fact, because I like and admire Irvin, I tried to keep her away from the dope. We don’t want trouble with a man of that type, who has all sorts of influence. Besides, Monte Irvin is a good fellow.” Gradually, as he spoke, the rigid arms relaxed and the lithe body ceased to quiver. Finally, Lola sank back against his shoulder, sighing. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered. “You are telling me lies. But you have always told me lies; one more does not matter, I suppose. How strong you are. You have hurt my wrists. You will smoke with me now?” For a moment Pyne hesitated, then: “Very well,” he said. “Go and lie down. I will roast the _chandu_.” CHAPTER XVIII. THE DREAM OF SIN SIN WA