On her way back along the gallery she recalled his face in that moment of rage with troubled question. She wondered if there was more disturbing him than she knew--it was an extraordinary exhibition of anger for such a cause. Also she had not felt sure that his change of mood was genuine, his laugh had rung false, and when he had laid his hands on her shoulders she had felt their coldness through the thin stuff of her negligée. She heaved a sigh of relief at the thought that he was going. In his present mood there was no knowing what clashes there might be, and it was the last evening, and there would be a full moon, and she and Bassett would walk like lovers under its magic light. When her door had closed, the gallery and living-room became as quiet as though the house were unoccupied. Sybil, approaching it, heard no sound of voices, a fact that reassured her, for the long day had tired her and she had no mind for talk. She was coming in by the balcony when she saw Flora Stokes sitting there reading and deflected her course toward the path that skirted the building’s front. If Flora noticed her she made no sign, her eyes glued to her book, and Sybil, stepping softly, for she dreaded the woman’s resentful glances, passed along to the entrance of the living-room. The place was deserted and she stopped on the threshold for a last look at the sky’s fading splendors. Across the depths of the room the door into the hall opened, but so gently that she did not hear it. Stokes made this noiseless entrance in the hope that she might be there, and now, seeing his hope fulfilled, closed the door as carefully, standing against it watching her. If the conventional garb of the street was not as becoming to his darkly Byronic style as the trappings of the Duke, he was still unusually handsome. A figure of distinction in its lean grace, with proud hawk features and the deep-set melancholy eyes that the matinée girl loves. Even his pallor had charm in their opinion, adding to his romantic suggestion. Gull Island sun and breezes had left no trace upon it; his face against the background of the door was a yellowish white. Seeing that she did not turn he pronounced her name. At that she wheeled, lightning-quick, and came forward from beneath the deep jut of the gallery assuming as unconcerned a manner as she could. “Lovely evening,” she said as she advanced. “It’s been hard to come in.” “Evidently from the length of time you stayed out there. I’ve been waiting for you.” It was not a propitious beginning, especially as he still stood against the door as if intending to bar her exit. “I’m going up-stairs to dress now.” “There’s plenty of time. You can give me a few minutes. I’ve something I want to say to you.” “Oh, Aleck!” She stopped with an air of weary expostulation. “_Don’t_ say anything more. _Don’t_ begin that dreadful subject. I’m sick of it, I loathe it and _can’t_ you see it isn’t any use?” He went on as if he hadn’t heard her: