She seldom saw him except at meals, and a little while in the drawing-room of an evening. The most of his time was spent in the library or out riding and walking. But one day he came to her abruptly. "I am going up to New York for a few days," he said. "I hope you will make use of my library while I am out of the way." "Thank you," she said, radiantly. "If I should see your parents," he continued, "shall I give them any message for you?" She started, and the crimson rose she was holding fell from her hands. He wondered why she grew so deadly pale, and trembled so. The sudden radiance of a moment ago had all gone from her face. "Give them my love," she said in a husky voice, "and tell them--tell them that I am greatly enjoying my visit to Eden." CHAPTER VIII. St. Leon came home one afternoon and made his way straight to the library. The thickly carpeted floor gave back no echo to his footfalls, and he stood on the threshold of the room several minutes gazing in at the open door unobserved by the single occupant of the apartment. As he had shrewdly suspected, his mother's guest had availed herself to the full of his permission to use the library in his absence. Quite oblivious of his near presence now, Beatrix was curled up in his great easy-chair in a cozy, kittenish attitude, her warm flushed cheek buried in the hollow of one small hand, her dark eyes bent in rapt interest on an open book in her lap. A ray of sunshine stealing through the lace curtains at the window penciled golden bars on her white dress and bright hair, making her look like a picture to whose beauty St. Leon's cultured eyes were by no means oblivious. He hesitated to startle her from her pretty negligent attitude, but as he gazed his mesmeric eyes irresistibly attracted hers. She glanced up and met his dark, burning eyes fixed with a strange inscrutable expression upon her own. Instantly Beatrix sprung up, the book falling to the floor, a little cry of surprise on her lips, her face paling, a look of inexplicable terror in her dark eyes. "Am I an ogre that you do me the honor to be frightened at me, Miss Gordon?" he inquired, advancing into the room, a tone of displeasure in his deep, musical voice. "I--I was not frightened--only startled, sir," said Beatrix, faintly, as she stooped to recover her book. She laid it upon the table and was about to leave the room when he stopped her with a slight wave of his gloved hand. "Resume your seat, Miss Gordon. I shall not believe you are not frightened if you run away like this," he said. She sat down with a gasp and waited. She had been full of vague fears and suspicions regarding his visit to New York. She waited with a beating heart and a pale face for his next words. He would say, with that fine scorn his mobile face was so capable of expressing: