She stopped, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes and then, feeling he had perceived it, she exclaimed: "If I cry it’s because I am disappointed—disillusionized—angry!" She turned her back and went quickly to the window where the little Dresden clock lay shattered in a corner. She picked it up and looked at it, swallowing her anger. Then, as he continued to keep the silence, she came back, without looking at him, placed the clock on the mantelpiece again and said coldly: "Well, it is time for you to go—not to keep her waiting." "Good-afternoon," he said with a bow, and left the apartment. When he reached the street, he was overcome with surprise. "By Jove!" he said, swinging joyfully along. "Is it possible after all that she does care about me? How her eyes blazed—the little fury. That at least wasn’t acting!" And though he remained until late, amused at Emma Fornez, he felt the flame of the other presence about him, obtruding itself at every moment; and he who had seen the play of strong emotions in Mrs. Bloodgood and Mrs. Kildair, avidly began to feel what it would mean to be loved with such intensity. Emma Fornez questioned him about Miss Charters but for the first time he resolutely concealed from her what had taken place. That night on his return to his rooms, he found a short note from Bruce Gunther: DEAR TED, Be at McKenna’s offices to-morrow—ten sharp. Something doing. B. P.S. Keep this to yourself—_savez_? *CHAPTER XX* DEAR TEDDY, I am very much ashamed at what happened yesterday. Please forgive my ill-humor and some day, when you have a spare hour, do come to see me. Very cordially your friend, NAN CHARTERS. This note was the first which Beecher read on awakening the next morning. He had slept by fits and starts, troubled by the memory of his last interview with the young actress. The sudden unchecked tempest of jealousy and anger which had revealed to him the dramatic intensity of the woman had made a more haunting impression on his imagination than all her premeditated appeals. "If after all she does love me? How tremendous it would be," he had said to himself a dozen times, turning restlessly, in the half stupor of waking sleep. He lived over again the scene—only this time it seemed to him that when she had flung the clock from her in a passion, he had laughed joyfully and caught her struggling in his arms, exulting in this rage which burned so close to him. His first impulse on reading her note was to telephone her immediately, but he resisted this movement, saying to himself that that would be surrendering all his advantage. "I’ll call up later," he thought with a smile; "that will be much better."