"Miss Ramsey brought hers with her," replied Mariana, with a smile. "It worries her dreadfully. It is just like a ball on the leg of a convict. She has to drag it wherever she goes, and it makes her awfully tired sometimes." "A good Bohemian conscience is the only variety worth possessing," observed Mr. Nevins. "It changes color with every change of scene and revolves upon an axis. Hurrah for Bohemia!" "Hear! hear!" cried Mariana, gayly. She lifted a glass of sherry, and, lighting a cigarette, sprang upon the music-stool. Mr. Ponsonby drew up a chair and seated himself at the piano, and, blowing a cloud of smoke about her head, Mariana sang a rollicking song of the street. As she finished, the door opened and Algarcife stood upon the threshold. For a moment he gazed at the scene--at Mariana poised upon the music-stool with upraised arms, her hat hanging by an elastic from her shoulder, her head circled by wreaths of cigarette smoke, her eyes reckless. His look was expressive of absolute amazement. Innocent as the scene was in reality, to him it seemed an orgy of abandon, and there was not a man in the room who would not have understood Mariana at that moment better than he did. "I beg your pardon, Nevins," he said, abruptly. "No, I won't come in." And the door closed. But Mariana had seen his face, and, with a flutter of impulse and a precipitate rush, she was after him. "Mr. Algarcife!" Her voice broke. He turned and faced her. "What is it?" "You--you looked so shocked!" she cried. She stood before him, breathless and warm, the smoking cigarette still in her hand. "Throw that away!" he said. She took a step forward, struggling like a netted bird beneath the spell of his power. "How absurd!" she said, softly. The cigarette dropped from her fingers to the floor. He laughed. His eyes burned steadily upon her. Before his gaze her lashes wavered and fell, but not until she had seen the flashing of latent impulse in his face. "But you dropped it," he said. "Yes." "Why did you?" Mariana made a desperate effort at her old fearlessness. It failed her. Her eyes were upon the floor, but she felt his gaze piercing her fallen lids. She spoke hurriedly. "Because--because I did," she answered. He came a step nearer. She felt that the passion in his glance was straining at the leash of self-control. She did not know that desire was insurgent against the dominion of will, and was waging a combat with fire and sword. She put up her hands. "You are my friend," she said. Her tones faltered. The haze of idealism with which he had surrounded her was suffused with a roseate glow. He caught her hands. His face had grown dark and set, and the lines upon his forehead seemed ineffaceable.