"Please say that I have gone to the studio apartment to get some things from my trunks," she said; and wrote out the address in case either Mr. Rivett or Mr. Dineen wished to communicate with her. Then, in furs, walking skirt and veil, and her tired little heart already outstripping her feet, she went out into the sunset world upon the pilgrimage so long desired, so long and wistfully deferred. Her pulse beat fast as she entered _his_ street. The sight of the house filled her with sudden trepidation, but she knew that he was not there. She had nearly three hours alone before her, unless the others, returning to find her note, might telephone and interrupt her. Her key turned smoothly in the lock; she crossed the threshold, holding her breath. A dull, mellow light filled the studio. In the stillness a faint fragrance of tobacco hung in the air. Step by step she advanced, looking at each familiar object as she came to it and passed it—pausing to lay a gloved hand on the sofa where, ages ago, two very young people sat, touching with lingering fingers the empty silver bowl which once, on a summer day, had been almost hidden under a fragrant load of peonies. Something behind her—and it was not a sound—made her turn. The white cat sat looking at her with no recognition in its solemn eyes; and when she moved forward, hand outstretched in wistful appeal, it calmly retreated into the demi light of the bedroom beyond. The well of desolation was filling fast now; she sank into a wide chair by the tea table and, lifting her veil, touched her eyes with her handkerchief. Then, disciplined, controlled, she lay back looking into the bedroom where she and her sister had slept and awakened through those three magic days which even Fate allowed before foreclosing on her destiny forever. Pink bars of sunlight slanted on the wall, warming the painted armor of a forgotten dead man—forgotten no more than some among the living. A great lady, painted in her jewels, seemed to flush and smile as a rosy bar crept across her cheek. Doubtless she, too, had loved before she died. The girl extended her arm listlessly along the upholstered arm of her chair, and looked at her white-gloved hand. In the hollow of that hand she had once held Love, and had smilingly released it. Out of that little palm Love had flown far beyond her ken; and there was no returning for that winged thing. Then, very quietly, she bowed her head, eyes sheltered by her hand, and remained so, motionless, for a long while. The outer bell had sounded twice before she realized that it was the bell of the apartment. Dazed, she rose, stood a moment collecting herself, then walked to the door and opened it. Colonel Curmew stepped jauntily in. So astonished was she that she scarcely understood what he was about before they both were on the studio threshold—she instinctively retreating, he advancing, wreathed in a smile so remarkable that it fascinated her.