“How long ago that was! And we read ‘Romeo and Juliet’ together, and fancied that we had gone down to the very depths of its meaning. We fancied that we had sounded the very depths of its passion and pathos. We were only girls. Ah, Phyllis, I tell you--I, who know--I, who have found it out,--I tell you that the tragedy is the tragedy of all lovers who have ever lived in the world. I tell you that it is the tragedy of love itself. ‘Gallop apace, ye fiery-footed steeds!’ That is the poem that the heart of the lover sings all day--all day! I have heard it--my heart has sung it. I have heard the passionate gallop of those fiery-footed steeds. I have listened to them while my heart beat in unison with their frantic career--all day counting the moments with fiery face, and then--then--something that was not passion forced me to fly from it for the salvation of my soul. I was a fool! Why am I here, when I should be where he----What is the hour? Why, it is scarcely twelve o’clock! Did I say nine in my letter? What does it matter? I wonder if on that wonderful night--Gounod translated its glory into music--Juliet kept her lover waiting for three hours.” “What are you doing?” cried Phyllis, rising. Ella had picked up her theatre wrap--it was a summer cloud brocaded with golden threads of quivering sunlight, and had flung it around her. She held out a hand to Phyllis. Phyllis grasped her round the waist. “Where are you going?” she said. “To hell!” She had whispered the words, and at their utterance Phyllis gave a cry of horror and covered her face with her hands. Had she seen a suggestion of the satyr in the expression of that lovely face before her? In the pause that followed the sound of footsteps upon the stairs outside was heard; the sound of footsteps and of men’s friendly laughter. Some persons were in the act of ascending. “My God!” whispered Ella. “He has followed me here!” “Hush!” said Phyllis. “Papa is bringing someone to us.” “Whom--whom?” They were both standing together in the middle of the room, both having their eyes fixed on the door, when the door opened and Mr. Ayrton appeared, having by his side a man with iron-gray hair and a curiously pallid face. At the sight of that man Ella’s hands, that had been holding her wrap close to her throat, feeling for its silver clasp, fell limp, and the splendid mass of white brocade slipped to the floor and lay in folds about her feet, revealing her lovely figure sparkling from the hem of her dress to the top of her shapely head. CHAPTER XXI. THAT TOILET SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN WASTED. For several seconds the tableau remained unchanged: the two women standing side by side, the two men motionless at the half-open door. Ella was staring at the man who had entered with Mr. Ayrton. There was some apprehension in her eyes. The man had his eyes fixed upon her. But his face was wholly devoid of expression.