Mrs. Rickett's eyes regarded her shrewdly for a moment or two, then looked away. "Shall I fetch you a candle?" she said. Juliet turned back into the room. "I have one, thank you. Perhaps you wouldn't mind going to find Mr. Green while I dress." Mrs. Rickett hastened away, and Juliet lighted her candle and surveyed herself for a second, standing motionless before the glass. Several minutes later she descended the stairs and went quietly into the dining-room. She was wearing a large-brimmed hat that shadowed her face. Dick, standing by the mantelpiece, waiting for her, gave her a hard and piercing look as she entered. "I am sorry I am late," she said. He moved abruptly as if somehow the conventional words had an edge. He drew out a chair for her. "I am afraid there isn't a great deal of time," he said. She sat down with a murmured word of thanks. He took his place, facing her, very pale, but absolutely his own master. He served her silently, and she made some pretence of eating, keeping her head bent, feeding Columbus surreptitiously as he sat by her side. Her plate was empty when at length very resolutely she looked up and spoke. "Dick, I want you to understand one thing. I did not open that parcel of yours. It was open when it came." Instantly his eyes were upon her with merciless directness. "I gathered that," he said. She met his look unflinchingly, but her next words came with an effort. "Then you can't--with justice--blame me for surprising your secret." "I don't," he said. "And yet--" She made a slight gesture of remonstrance, as if the piercing brightness of his eyes were more than she could bear. He pushed back his chair and rose. He came to her as she sat, bent over her, his hand on her shoulder, and looked at her intently. "Juliet," he said, "I don't like you with that stuff on your face. It isn't--you." She kept her face steadily upturned, enduring his look with no sign of shrinking. "You are meeting--the real me--for the first time--to-night," she said. His mouth curved cynically. "I think not. I have never worshipped at the shrine of a painted goddess." Something rose in her throat and she put up a hand to hide it. "I doubt if--Dene Strange--was ever capable of worshipping anything," she said. His hand closed upon her. "Does that mean that you hate him more than you love me?" he said. A faint quiver crossed her face. She passed the question by. "Do you remember--Cynthia Paramount--your heroine?" she said. "The woman you dissected so cleverly--stripped to the naked soul--and exposed to public ridicule? You were terribly merciless, weren't you, Dick? You didn't expect--some day--to find yourself married--to that sort of woman." His face hardened. "In what way do you resemble her?" he said. "I have never seen it yet." "Can't you see it--now?" she returned, lifting her face more fully to the light.