That evening she fought it out with herself with a sort of deadly intelligence. Alone in her room, seated, and facing her mirrored gaze unflinchingly, she stated her case, minutely, to herself from beginning to end; then called the only witness for the prosecution--herself--and questioned that witness without mercy. Did she care for Quarren? Apparently. How much? A great deal. Was she in love with him? She could not answer. Wherein did he differ from other men she knew--Sir Charles, for example? She only knew that he _was_ different. Perhaps he was nobler? No. More intelligent? No. Kinder? No. More admirable? No. More gentle, more sincere, less selfish? No. Did he, as a man, compare favorably with other men--Sir Charles for example? The comparison was not in Quarren's favor. Wherein, then, lay her interest in him? She could not answer. Was she perhaps sorry for him? Very. Why? Because she believed him capable of better things. Then the basis of her regard for him was founded on pity. No; because from the beginning--even before he had unmasked--she had been sensible of an interest in him different from any interest she had ever before felt for any man. This uncompromisingly honest answer silenced her mentally for some moments; then she lifted her resolute gray eyes to the eyes of the mirrored witness: If that is true, then the attraction was partly physical? She could not answer. Pressed for a statement she admitted that it might be that. Then the basis of her regard for him was ignoble? She found pleasure in his intellectual attractions. But the basis had not been intellectual? No. It had been material? Yes. And she had never forgotten the light pressure of that masked Harlequin's spangled arm around her while she desperately counted out the seconds of that magic minute forfeited to him? No; she had never forgotten. It was a sensation totally unknown to her before that moment? Yes. Had she experienced it since that time? Yes. When? When he first told her that he loved her. And afterward? Yes. When? In the cheeks of the mirrored witness a faint fire began to burn: her own face grew pink: but she answered, looking the shadowy witness steadily in the eyes: "When he took my hand at the door--and during--whatever happened--afterward." And she excused the witness and turned her back to the looking-glass. The only witness for the defence was the accused--unless her own heart were permitted to testify. Or--and there seemed to be some slight confusion here--_was_ Quarren on trial? Or was she herself? This threatened to become a serious question; she strove to think clearly, to reason; but only evoked the pale, amused face of Quarren from inner and chaotic consciousness until the visualisation remained fixed, defying obliteration. And she accepted the mental spectre for the witness box. "Ricky," she said, "do you really love me?" But the clear-cut, amused face seemed to mock her question with the smile she knew so well--so well, alas!