She lay staring at the painted canopy of her bed. It seemed to her that with Cryder’s life her past was annihilated, that the man took with him every act and deed of which she had been a part. A curtain seemed to roll down just behind her. A drama had been enacted, but it was over. What had it been about? She had forgotten. She could recall nothing. That curtain shut out every memory. She pressed her hands over her eyes. She was free! She could take up her life from this hour and forget that any man had entered it but Grettan Quintard. Cryder? Who was he? Had he ever lived? What did he look like? She could not remember. She could recall but one face—a face which should never be seen in this room. Though her mood was not a hard one, she felt no pity for Cryder. Love had made every object in life insignificant but herself and her lover. She would marry Quintard. She would be all that in her better moments she had dreamed of being—that and more. She had great capacity for good in her; her respect and admiration for Quintard’s higher qualities had taught her that. She threw up her arms and struck her open palms against the bed’s head. And how she loved him! What exultation in the thought of her power to give him happiness! For a few days Quintard felt as if he were walking on the edge of a crater. The hardness in her nature seemed to have melted and gone. The defiant, almost cynical look had left her eyes; they were dreamy, almost appealing. She made no further effort to tempt him, but he had a weird feeling that if he touched her he would receive an electric shock. He did not suspect the cause of the sudden change, nor did he care to know. It was enough that it was. * * * * * CHAPTER XXXV. IDEALS RESTORED. They were sitting together one evening in the jungle. The night was hot and the windows were open, but the curtains were drawn. The lamps were hidden behind the palms, and the room was full of mellow light. Hermia sat on a bank of soft, green cushions, and Quintard lay beside her. Hermia wore a loose gown of pale-green mull, that fell straight from her bosom’s immovable swell, and her neck and arms were bare. She had clasped her hands about her knee and was leaning slightly forward. Beside her was a heavy mass of foliage, and against it shone her hair and the polished whiteness of her skin. “Now that you are famous, and your book has been discussed threadbare, what are you going to do next?” she asked him.