"I think you can fill the glasses, Kirk," she said with a glance at the tray. "Helen was directly behind me, as I came down the stairs. You know, Mr. Sarbella, we're terribly punctual about dinner. The way the servants do discipline us these days!" The screen door onto the porch opened again, and Helen Gilmore came out quietly, almost listlessly. Kirklan was filling the last glass. "Victor, I want you to meet my wife; Helen, this is Mr. Sarbella--the artist, you know," he said. "Perhaps I neglected to tell you that he was expected." There was a pause. The polite, formal smile on the artist's lips was washed away by a tidal wave of emotion--surprise, incredulity, horror--which left his face white and rigid; into his eyes there blazed a scorching fire of hatred that, since his back was toward the others, was seen only by Helen. At mention of his name Helen had stopped, her own features ghastly; but she quickly checked the startled gasp which rose in her white throat and, by the most tremendous effort, managed to control herself. However, her agitation escaped neither her husband nor Joan; both of them sensed what a dramatic shock the meeting had been to her. Sarbella mastered his emotions wonderfully, and he came of a race that is essentially emotional. And while he could not hide the pallor of his face, he did mask that first flash of hatred which had blazed in his eyes. Yet he dared not trust his tongue. Silently he bowed. Kirklan Gilmore's unsteady hand splashed the last cocktail all over the tray. "Perhaps--perhaps you've--met before?" he suggested, alarmed by what was obviously an attempt to conceal a mutual recognition. "No," answered Victor Sarbella, his voice husky despite himself, "Mrs. Gilmore and I have never met until this moment. It is a circumstance that I very much regret." "Mr. Sarbella," said Helen, an almost hysterical catch in her voice, "is a total stranger. The name startled me. It is such an unusual name, and I once had a--a friend who----" "Dinner is served!" announced Bates. He said it quietly enough, but it was like a thunderclap, this interruption. "Here's how!" cried Joan, picking up her cocktail glass. "You'll go a long way before you find anything like this, Mr. Sarbella; it's some of the old stock that Kirk's father had in the cellar--oh, years and years ago." It served to break the tension. "Here's to the new book--may it be a tremendous success!" "Great gods!" Sarbella said under his breath, as he mechanically lifted his glass. "It is she--the woman! I find her here, the wife of--of my friend. Merciful Heaven, his wife!" CHAPTER VI IN THE STUDIO