He looked down at the dark-haired woman seated at the piano and thought how her loveliness would have delighted Greuze. As her slim fingers, laden with sparkling gems, ran swiftly and dexterously over the keys, her lawny bosom rose and fell, the diamonds at her throat glittered with iridescent fire, and the sweet odour of the violets added one more to the many charms thus spread for him. She had taken three or four of the flowers from her breast, and with a single leaf had made up a tiny bouquet, afterwards placing it in the lappel of his coat, as was her tender habit when they were alone. And he was actually deceiving this affectionate woman, who had been his friend, _confidante_, and adviser ever since their days of childhood! He stood behind her, clenching his teeth, hating himself for his duplicity. Did he really love her, he asked himself for the thousandth time? Yes, he did. She was all in all to him. Their love had always been idyllic. In his eyes no woman was half as fair to look upon; none so full of innate grace and _chic_; none so sweet in temperament or so full of charms. Fate had parted them, it was true, and she had married Dick Nevill, his best friend. Yet he had never ceased to love her--though to her dead lord she had been a model wife during their too brief period of wedded happiness. When Dick died he had, at Claudia's own request, gone back to her to become her platonic friend, to cheer her in her loneliness, and to advise her in the hundred and one matters which concerned her future. And again she had grown to love him; again she had worshipped him as her ideal. She had finished the valse, and, turning slowly, raised her perfect face, slightly tragic in its dark beauty, with a mute invitation for his caress. He placed his hand tenderly upon her shoulder and bent until his lips touched hers. And as he did so, he saw in her bright eyes that calm expression of tranquil content which comes to such a woman in the thrill engendered by her lover's kiss. She rose from the music-stool. Once more he held her in his arms, as he had so often done of old, while she, in that soft voice he knew so well, tried to teach him the height and breadth and depth of her love. "I know what people say, Dudley!" she exclaimed, hoarsely. "Tant mieux! I know that odious reports have reached you regarding me, but surely you will trust me? Cannot you see for yourself, dear, that I am yours-- entirely yours?" "Words are unnecessary, Claudia," he answered, kissing her. "That you love me I have never doubted; I give no credence to anything I hear. I trust in you implicitly." "Then if that is so, dear, why not be perfectly frank and tell me the reason of your sadness?" she urged. "I am not sad, Claudia," he protested with a feigned air of gaiety. "How can I be sorrowful when I know that I possess your love?"