And now she sat awaiting Richard’s coming, her heart beating feverishly, her face pale and her eyes restless and brilliant. She had determined, if the worst came to the worst, that she would ask him to make a great sacrifice for her on the altar of friendship. She had not reached this decision without a struggle. It would be so pleasant to have him with her on the voyage! She had grown to take so much pleasure in his companionship that it seemed almost sacrilege to place any obstacle in the path of events that conspired to prolong their intimacy. And it was chance, not design, that was responsible for the fact--if it were a fact--that they were to sail for the Old World together. But Mrs. Percy-Bartlett was too clever a woman to allow the tempting fallacies that beset her mind to long have sway. She realized that it is very easy to find arguments to defend and justify almost any course of action; but she still retained her confidence in that vague, indefinable, but insistent guide that is generally called conscience, and when she was weary of inward debate she always fell back on it for the final word, the motive-power that should carry her in the right direction. In this instance, conscience whispered to her that either Richard Stoughton or herself must remain in New York when the Majestic left the pier in the morning. That it would be well nigh impossible for her to make a change in her plans without undergoing many embarrassing questions from her husband, she well knew. Her ultimate hope lay in Richard Stoughton’s unselfishness. If he cared for her “in the right way,” as she put it to herself, he would alter his movements for her sake. The portière was pushed back, and a servant announced “Mr. Stoughton.” Richard entered the music-room, a flush of pleasure and excitement on his cheeks and the joy of youthful enthusiasm in his eyes. As she gave him her hand it felt as cold as marble in his grasp, and he saw that her face was pale and her expression one of apprehension rather than delight. “Something is worrying you,” he said, as he seated himself where he could look into her face. “Did you not understand my note?” She smiled sadly. “I fear that I did,” she answered in a low voice. “You sail on the Majestic to-morrow morning?” “Yes.” “I am very sorry,” she faltered, feeling that it was harder to obey the voice of conscience than she had thought it would be. The light in his face died out and he looked at her with mingled surprise and regret. “I had thought,” he said, almost bitterly, “that you would be pleased to have me for a fellow-traveller.”