She was very shrunk and pitiful in the long swell of the music. She knew he must not see her another moment. His conscience might win and he might take her home: he would never forgive her. She saw a new world in his eyes, turning his eyes from hers. She slipped out. And all the guests were gone. There was no one in the room save David and this Helen he did not know. She stood there, straight and small in the center of the room. She looked at him. He came to her. Everything he did was slow. He had a sense of an eternity in which he was about to step. The passions of his life seemed shivered fragments beside the steadfast vastness of this moment. She was near him now. He had her warm pervasion all about him. He put his arms around her waist. Her arms were stiff at her side. As she leaned faintly back from the pressure of his hands, her face turned upward. So he drew her in, until her mouth was his.... * * * * * Cornelia was home. Straight she went into her little bedroom and lit the gas. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was pale, but a dim flush flowered her cheeks. Her eyes were wide and deep with a dry passion. She looked at herself; aloud she said: “This is I. This is Cornelia Rennard.” Her voice ceased, she went on speaking. “I am beautiful. For one time, I am beautiful. If he could see me now----” It was so. It was a pity he could not see her now. She turned away, she took off her dress. Carefully she smoothed out its folds: she placed it away. She had a housegown of warm quilted silk-brocade--it was brown. She put it on. She fastened it tight about her and made the belt sure about her waist with a knot. She went to her desk and sat down. She took a calendar date-book and laid it before her. There was an engagement inscribed for the following Sunday. The rest of the days were blank. She began to write. “_Sunday_: prepare sketch for the Trenton fountain. Evening, Purzes for dinner. _Tuesday_: ask Mr. Bailey about Philadelphia. _Friday_: Jack and Clara to tea.” She filled ten days with her mental notes of engagements. When she had done so much, suddenly she grasped the book in her two hands as if to tear it. Her hands stopped in suspense. Her face turned upward. “It has to be,” she said, once more aloud. “It is a lie.... What is a lie?” She was smiling. “Cornelia----” she tenderly spoke, almost maternally to herself, “when one does a thing, do it well.” She laid the date-book open at the center of the desk. With a swift thrust she opened the drawers. She closed them. No. There was nothing there to be concealed. She was up. She smiled; once more she took a pencil and turned the pages of the book to a day two weeks away. She wrote: “Ask David to dinner.” Then, she straightened and crossed the room.