'I will not play any more,' I said quickly. 'I ought not to have tried to play from memory. Excuse me.' And I left the piano as calmly as I could. I knew that by an effort I could walk steadily and in a straight line across the room to Vicary and the others, and I succeeded. They should not learn my secret. 'Poor thing!' murmured Mrs. Sardis sympathetically. 'Do sit down, dear.' 'Won't you have something to drink?' said Vicary. 'I am perfectly all right,' I said. 'I'm only sorry that my memory is not what it used to be.' And I persisted in standing for a few moments by the mantelpiece. In the glass I caught one glimpse of a face as white as milk, Jocelyn remained at her post by the piano, frightened by she knew not what, like a young child. 'Our friend finished a new work only yesterday,' said Lord Francis shakily. He had followed me. 'She has wisely decided to take a long holiday. Good-bye, my dear.' These were the last words he ever spoke to me, though I saw him again. We shook hands in silence, and he left. Nor would the others stay. I had ruined the night. We were all self-conscious, diffident, suspicious. Even Vicary was affected. How thankful I was that my silent lover had not come! My secret was my own--and his. And no one should surprise it unless we chose. I cared nothing what they thought, or what they guessed, as they filed out of the door, a brilliant procession of which I had the right to be proud; they could not guess my secret. I was sufficiently woman of the world to baffle them as long as I wished to baffle them. Then I noticed that Mrs. Sardis had stayed behind; she was examining some lustre ware in the further drawing-room. 'I'm afraid Jocelyn has gone without her mother,' I said, approaching her. 'I have told Jocelyn to go home alone,' replied Mrs. Sardis. 'The carriage will return for me. Dear friend, I want to have a little talk with you. Do you permit?' 'I shall be delighted,' I said. 'You are sure you are well enough?' 'There is nothing whatever the matter with me,' I answered slowly and distinctly. 'Come to the fire, and let us be comfortable. And I told Emmeline Palmer, my companion and secretary, who just then appeared, that she might retire to bed. Mrs. Sardis was nervous, and this condition, so singular in Mrs. Sardis, naturally made me curious as to the cause of it. But my eyes still furtively wandered to the door. 'My dear co-worker,' she began, and hesitated. 'Yes,' I encouraged her. She put her matron's lips together: 'You know how proud I am of your calling, and how jealous I am of its honour and its good name, and what a great mission I think we novelists have in the work of regenerating the world.' I nodded. That kind of eloquence always makes me mute. It leaves nothing to be said. 'I wonder,' Mrs. Sardis continued, 'if you have ever realized what a power _you_ are in England and America to-day.'