The man had not been in the least like Leo. As far as she could remember, he had worn a velvet coat like an artist, or something of the kind. Oh yes, artists, with their wide views and great minds, were the men who understood the hearts of women, and how to drag them into eternity. She wasn't sure about the velvet coat after all. But the woman's white satin dress she remembered distinctly; it had fitted like gleaming armour over the bust. That wasn't the fashion now, but what did fashions matter when one was going to die? The only thing that mattered was to look beautiful in death. And she began to consider what she should put on. Among her peignoirs and _sautes de lit_, she possessed one of softest _crêpe de chine_ which fell in straight Greek folds, and was drawn in above the waist by a golden girdle. She had ordered it from Paris before her second marriage, and had been keeping it for some special occasion. This occasion would certainly have arrived now if Leo had not got hold of the stupid idea that they must creep out into the night-mists to put an end to themselves. In any case, she would not forego the pleasure of trying on the artistic garment. She locked the doors, put shades of pink gauze on the toilette-table candles, and undressed. As she stood before the glass, her figure in the graceful Greek draperies illumined seductively by the subdued purple light, she was ravished by the sight of her own beauty. He must see her like this. Just for one second, and all thought of dying would be abandoned. How glad she was that she had extracted that promise from him at the last, to come and fetch her. When she met him thus attired, what else could he do but snatch her in his arms, and instead of dying with her in the gruesome manner that he had proposed, he would tread again at her side the primrose path of passion, which Rhaden's jealousy had so hatefully interrupted. Yes, so she would win him back to her altogether, her big, adoring boy. But the night that she passed before this contemplated enjoyment was anything but peaceful. She recalled his face when he had said, "This time it will be no joke. We shall not drink toothache drops." And even granted that she could bring him to reason, there was always the vision of Johanna hovering in the background, eager to shatter their new-found bliss. Was there no way out of it? She pondered and pondered till her head ached, staring into the darkness with wide, anxious eyes. The plan that she hit on at last did not differ eventually by a hair's breadth from the one which Leo had rejected as unworthy. She would write to Ulrich to-morrow and impress on him how Johanna's brain was becoming more unhinged every day. She would give striking examples of it, pity and defend the unfortunate creature, hint at a pending catastrophe, and so prepare his mind for having to deal with the delusions of a mad woman, if she should really make a betrayal of her secret.