Diana stood stock still, as though turned to stone. There had been a crash outside; then, in rather rapid but irregular succession, a series of thuds. It was Colonel Curmew’s impact with wall and floor; Mr. Dineen had been patiently knocking him down until that battered and half-senseless warrior took the count. Then one careful and heavy kick sent him down the first of the flights of stairs, and a moment later Diana heard the door bell. She opened; Mr. Rivett walked in slowly, as though abstracted; Mr. Dineen came behind, straightening his scarf-pin. "You left the door ajar, so we walked in," observed Rivett, ignoring his previous entrance. He strolled about, glancing up at the pictures and tapestries. Then his manner changed. "Well, my dear," he said briskly, "Mr. Dineen and I stopped at the hotel, and your maid told us you had come here to get things out of your trunks. So, if you’ve finished rummaging, the car is below, and Jack and Silvette are waiting tea for us at the St. Regis." "Thank you," she said in a low voice. "Had you rather not come?" "I had rather not—if you don’t mind." He walked over to her, took both her hands, and looked into her eyes. "I am at your service, my dear," he said. "I know it.... My heart will always be in yours." His face grew grimmer. "I guess we understand each other, child.... Next to my own—Silvette—and you.... Shall the car wait for you?" "I will walk back." "Dinner at seven," he said, releasing her hands. She nodded, forcing a smile. "At seven," she repeated, offering her hand to Mr. Dineen, who squeezed it shamelessly while unfeigned admiration transfigured his broad face. So they left her there in the studio, standing in the dusk, head held high, and in her eyes that dauntless courage that remains though lips quiver and the hot tears sting the straining throat. Cautiously, lest self-control slip the leash, she reseated herself and lay back in the chair, closing her eyes. Whatever battle raged within her was fought out there in darkness and in silence. She lay motionless, never stirring save for the slow clenching and relaxing of her fingers; and at last even that ceased. Then the steel nerves and iron will that had mastered the storm and soothed it, turned traitor, tricking her, furtively relaxing in the wake of exhaustion. In the dark the white cat stole in, hesitated, looked at her; then, satisfied, stretched out on a Persian rug in front of her. Long ago all sound had ceased in her ears; her heart beat quietly, her breath came and went as evenly and softly as the respiration of a sleeping child. Through the tall windows the starlight touched her; at her feet the white cat dozed, dreaming of nothing. Confused, the brilliancy of electric light in her eyes, Diana found herself sitting bolt upright, clutching the arms of her chair, and staring at a dark figure which leaned over her—a man, laughing, still amazed, still a little incredulous. "Jim!" she faltered.