Even had M. Châtelard adjusted his spectacles for a piercing look at the hero of his drama at that particular moment, he would have read nothing on the lean saturnine countenance. Yet had it not been for the conventions of society, how would not Raymond Bethune have answered Rosamond Gerardine? With what madness leaping to hers; with what passion, down on his knees! ... "Scorn me, for I deserve your scorn. I cast myself and my worthless life before you. Crush me into the dust if you will, only let me feel as I die the print of your foot upon me. Oh, you—most beautiful!" "I think," said M. Châtelard, rising abruptly, "that Lady Gerardine is ill." She was leaning back, deathly white, save for two hectic spots on each cheekbone which heightened the ghastliness of her look. Poor Sir Arthur! It was too bad! Just as he was beginning to feel so comfortable, in spite of the pokey little place, so connubially satisfied. "Tut, tut!" he cried, as he fussily made his way round the table. "I had hoped we had left all this in India." Baby warded off his approach with a pointed elbow. "Keep away, for goodness’ sake, Runkle," she cried sharply. "She’s faint; she wants air, that’s all. Come with me, darling." But, with unexpected strength, Lady Gerardine rose abruptly from her chair and pushed the faithful child on one side. "I am not faint," she said. "I am not faint; I am sick. Oh ... to see you all eat and drink!" She swept the circle with her eyes; her last glance resting upon Bethune. Then, with a beating heart, he knew what it was, this new nameless thing he had never seen before in her soft eyes—it was hatred. Her light draperies, weighted with their embroideries, swung against the chairs and the panelling of the narrow room as she hurried out from among them, head erect—scorn, abhorrence, in the very wind of her swift passage. With a sudden dilation of the eye, Muhammed Saif-u-din watched her come. He checked a forward movement towards her, and drew himself up sharply. But as she passed him he bent his supple frame and bowed deep—deep. Suddenly aware of him, she started fiercely from the proximity. "Out of my sight," she exclaimed, with a hoarse, deep cry, "son of treachery; his blood is still upon your hands!" The tread of her foot, curiously heavy, resounded, measured, all up the oaken stairs. Muhammed shot one eager glance after the retreating figure, then turned abruptly and plunged into the side passage. In the dining-room a dead little silence had fallen. Even Aspasia dared not follow her aunt. Consternation sat upon every countenance; the eye of each guest was instinctively dropped, as if dreading to betray a thought. Dr. Châtelard drew his brow together with professional gravity. "Insane—the poor, beautiful lady?" he asked himself. "Here is a solution, _par exemple_, that even I could not have foretold!"