On several separate stages the dramas and comedies were being played out, but in one great last act they might all come together for the finale, and be called true tragedy then. Sybil Chauntsey was playing her little part. Half frightened, half resentful, trying to call herself a baby, to tell her awakening woman's mind that Jimmie Gore Helmsley was only her pal, that she was a fool to think otherwise. And then the look in the black eyes, the little subtle caresses he had given her, gave this the lie. Sybil would not go to a dance that evening; she pleaded headache, sat in her stuffy room, looking out across the hot slates, thinking. She was afraid. Who would help her now to pay this man and so get out of his power? She had learned to dread him. She jumped up suddenly, ran to her writing-table. Old memories crowded back to her, her first years of coming out, when she had been so happy. She saw the library at the Holbrooks', felt warm young hands on hers, heard a voice saying: "But if you are ever in any trouble, if you want help, send for me. I shall always be ready." Her young soldier lover would help her now; and with wet eyes above the paper she wrote on, Sybil knew how she would turn to him again. How gifts of flowers and sweets, expensive dinners and suppers, stolen interviews for tea and subtle flattery, had lost their charm. She only wrote a few lines, posted it to York, where his regiment was stationed; she wanted his help, urgently; would he come to her _at once_? So the hot curtain of night fell on another act for Sybil. Esmé had gone home after tea, found Bertie there, resting in the flowerless drawing-room. With nerves strung up, with her hidden excitement wearing her out, she came to him, threw herself suddenly on her knees beside him, laid her face against his, tried to wake the thrill which the touch of his lips had given her once. Bertie, surprised, drew her to him, kissing the red mouth. It had been innocent of lip salve when he had kissed them first; her soft cheeks had not been plastered with expensive creams and powder. As hungry people imagine feasts, so Esmé sought for forgetfulness in passionate kisses, in new transports of love. Sought--and found no place. It seemed to her that Bertie had grown cold, that he no longer cared for her. He had never been a sensualist, only an honest lover. Whispered hints of Gore Helmsley's, little stories he had told her, came to her as she rested her cheek against her husband's. "Dear old Es," he said affectionately, but not passionately. "Dear old butterfly, it's nice to have my girlie loving again; but we'll be late for dinner if we don't dress quickly. Es, call your maid." Esmé rang listlessly; she hardly knew what she wanted, save that it was something which would wipe away her bitter thoughts.