Viola sank into a chair, her eyes wild, her face death-white, her heart beating to suffocation. Clasping her white jeweled hands prayerfully, she lifted her face, sobbing despairingly: “God help and pity me, and save me from the retribution my sins have brought upon me! Oh, what shall I do--what shall I do? Suppose he meets Philip on the threshold coming in. He will tell him all, unknowing that Philip is his successful rival. Oh, may Heaven hinder my dear love from coming here tonight!” “Too late! I am here!” answered a deep, stern voice; and Philip Desha advanced through a door leading from the morning-room. CHAPTER XVII. VIOLA’S WATERLOO. “When I loved you, I can’t but allow I had many an exquisite minute; But the scorn that I feel for you now, Has even more luxury in it. “Thus, whether we’re on or we’re off, Some witchery seems to await you; To love you were pleasant enough, But, oh, ’tis delicious to hate you!” Viola’s beautiful eyes, black now with excitement, turned wildly on her lover’s face, and she staggered toward him with outstretched hands, faltering piteously: “Dear Philip, I--I am ill!” Silently he took the offered hands and led her to a large easy-chair. Then allowing the cold little fingers to drop from his chilly hold, he stepped back a pace and stood with his arms folded across his breast, regarding her with a pale, stern face, whose expression was more eloquent than words. No need for her to wonder if he had heard her interview with Florian Gay. His cold avoidance, his reproachful face, spoke volumes. “Philip!” she wailed, despairingly, then buried her shamed face in her jeweled hands. Then he spoke, in a cold, hard voice she scarcely recognized: “I heard everything, Viola. When the servant admitted me he said you already had a caller. So I went into the little morning sitting-room to wait till he went away, not dreaming it was my friend Florian. I heard your voices--they were raised in excitement so that I could not avoid it. Every word sank like lead on my heart!” Hot tears sprang to her eyes and streamed through her fingers as she wondered what mercy she was to expect from her proud, high-minded lover who considered flirting a deadly sin. He was very angry, she knew from his face and his attitude. She would have to be very humble and repentant to win his forgiveness. She stole a glance at his face through her fingers, and saw that he was waiting for her to speak. She could think of only one word, and it came pleadingly, imploringly: “Forgive!” Then her lashes fell, and she waited in humble silence, hearing in the stillness her own muffled heart-beats. Pale, stern, handsome Philip Desha stood looking at the girl like her avenging Nemesis. He spoke, and she started at the hollow tone of his voice. “Viola, how can you expect forgiveness for your cruelty?” She murmured, faintly: