But Dr. Salmoni remained at a distance, sad and modest, as if it all concerned him not in the least. The only sign by which she knew he realised it was all meant for him was a rapid glance of understanding which he threw to her like a laurel wreath. She was still rocking in the tempest when the company prepared to break up. That had been intoxication, the sort of which he had spoken. It hissed like a flame through her heart and limbs. Dr. Salmoni himself helped her on with her fur coat--Richard was busy paying the waiter--and while he deliberately laid the sable scarf about her shoulders, he whispered close to her ear: "May I come to-morrow?" "Yes," she screamed, alarmed at herself. Then in defiance of her own cowardice, she turned abruptly on her heels and shouted sharply, as in anger, directly in his face: "Yes, yes, yes, yes!" "What's the matter?" everybody asked. She merely laughed shortly. What did she care for the others? Wasn't she aspiring to the heights again? * * * * * The next morning it was all a spectral dream. The one clear point was: "He's coming." With the applause still ringing in her ears she had stretched herself and thought: "Now he knows what I am. Now he knows I'm no dull, shrivelled, half-way creature for the valleys, no slave nature, no sheep that runs with the flock, no Mrs. Grundy-made fool, who voluntarily conforms to each and every convention. Now he knows I'm a free, proud woman, who, like himself, drinks in the light on the heights, one of those complete women, those mænads who dance a wild dance over abysms and mock at death even when he has them in his clutches." Then her faintheartedness crept over her again. What after all had she done besides drink herself into a champagne mood, sing a few comic songs, and dance an abandoned dance? She had behaved like a music-hall danseuse, and had harvested the very doubtful approval of a semi-intoxicated audience. If that alone was required for belonging to the elect, to the mighty, laughing, chosen ones, of whom Dr. Salmoni's books spoke! No, oh, no! After last night's performance he could feel nothing but contempt for her, or, at most, pity. It was to tell her this to her face that he would come to visit her, if at all. He would let her feel her lowness and then go his own way, benevolent but untouched. She would not suffer him to go. She would cling to him and cry: "You promised to lead me up to the heights out of these depths of distress, out of this insipid existence, out of this void! Be true to your word. Do not desert me. I will do whatever you wish. I will be your thing, your creature. But don't desert me." In feverish expectancy she dressed, waved her hair, and rouged her lips, pale from nights of pleasure. She made herself as beautiful as she could. A little before twelve the bell rang. He? No. Mrs. Jula.