Again silence settled, and at last, with a gesture of impatience, she began walking about the room--the soft swishing silk, and the delicate scent of violets that Timothy had loved so much, having their own fascination to make up the total sum. Mr Barringcourt leant his elbows on the mantelpiece, and looked into the fire. She had turned on one light, and still continued pacing back and forwards; and the clock struck the hour before midnight. “I think,” he said at last, quietly and steadily, “it would be much better if you composed yourself a little. There is no need to move about so incessantly.” “Don’t!” she cried, stopping abruptly. “Don’t stand there and preach to me. You are ten times worse than I am--only you--you have made up your mind not to show it.” “Do you seriously intend to stay here till he awakes?” He had turned round to her again. “Yes. I’ll stay, if only for the pleasure--of seeing you--s-sent away.” “And then what?” “Oh! then I will stay for the pleasure of staying.” And her head was very high, and she looked at him unflinchingly. “Pleasure?” said he, and he raised his eyebrows. And Marigold laughed quite naturally, and raised her eyebrows too. “That is why I came,” she said. “The High Priest is very fond of me, and I have grown fond of him. Perhaps you wish to take _him_ away from me too--like you did Timothy Wiggs.” The Master looked across at her, more narrowly than before. “You are not yourself to-night.” “I’m afraid I cannot say the same of you. You are as irritatingly superior as ever you were.” And she clasped her hands in the old attitude, and he turned abruptly back to the fireplace; and she mistook the action for dislike, and she laughed again--a low, dangerous laugh. And once more, this time with a face more set and white than ever, he turned again to her. “Marigold----” “You shall not call me Marigold. To you I am the Princess of Ellel.” A queer, stiff smile came to his lips for an instant, then disappeared again, as he bowed his head in acknowledgment of what she said. “Princess, have you thought seriously about to-night?” “That is my own affair entirely. It has nothing to do with you. I have thought over it perfectly seriously.” Her tone was anything but serious. “And have you weighed to-morrow morning?” “Why to-morrow morning?” she asked carelessly, her eyes travelling to the High Priest. “Because then the excitement of to-night will quite have died away. There will be nothing but a memory left in the place of--of all this that you anticipate.” She shrugged her shoulders, and began drumming with her fingers upon the table-cloth. “To-morrow mornings come to every one.” “But some are pleasant, and some are very black.” For the moment she looked at him seriously, and opened her lips as if to ask a question. Then remembering, and feeling the burning scars upon her neck--the only blemish to her beauty--she began pacing about again, making no answer.