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These remarks were made in the passage from the door through the hallway into the room. As Baron entered, Hagar and Mrs. Detlor were just coming from the studio. Both had ruled their features into stillness.

Baron stopped short, open mouthed, confused, when he saw Mrs. Detlor. Hagar, for an instant, attributed this to a reason not in Baron’s mind, and was immediately angry. For the man to show embarrassment was an ill compliment to Mrs. Detlor. However, he carried off the situation, and welcomed the Afrikander genially, determining to have the matter out with him in some sarcastic moment later. Baron’s hesitation, however, continued. He stammered, and was evidently trying to account for his call by giving some other reason than the real one, which was undoubtedly held back because of Mrs. Detlor’s presence. Presently he brightened up and said, with an attempt to be convincing, “You know that excursion this afternoon, Hagar? Well, don’t you think we might ask the chap we met this morning–first rate fellow–no pleb–picturesque for the box seat–go down with the ladies–all like him–eh?”

“I don’t see how we can,” replied Hagar coolly. Mrs. Detlor turned to the mantelpiece. “We are full up; every seat is occupied–unless I give up my seat to him.”

Mrs. Detlor half turned toward them again, listening acutely. She caught Hagar’s eyes in the mirror and saw, to her relief, that he had no intention of giving up his seat to Mark Telford. She knew that she must meet this man whom she had not seen for twelve years. She felt that he would seek her, though why she could not tell; but this day she wanted to forget her past, all things but one, though she might have to put it away from her ever after. Women have been known to live a lifetime on the joy of one day. Her eyes fell again on the mantelpiece, on Hagar’s unopened letters. At first her eyes wandered over the writing on the uppermost envelope mechanically, then a painful recognition came into them. She had seen that writing before, that slow sliding scrawl unlike any other, never to be mistaken. It turned her sick. Her fingers ran up to the envelope, then drew back. She felt for an instant that she must take it and open it as she stood there. What had the writer of that letter to do with George Hagar? She glanced at the postmark. It was South Hampstead. She knew that he lived in South Hampstead. The voices behind her grew indistinct; she forgot where she was. She did not know how long she stood there so, nor that Baron, feeling, without reason, the necessity for making conversation, had suddenly turned the talk upon a collision, just reported, between two vessels in the Channel. He had forgotten their names and where they hailed from–he had only heard of it, hadn’t read it; but there was great loss of life. She raised her eyes from the letter to the mirror and caught sight of her own face. It was deadly pale. It suddenly began to waver before her and to grow black. She felt herself swaying, and reached out to save herself. One hand caught the side of the mirror. It was lightly hung. It loosened from the wall, and came away upon her as she wavered. Hagar had seen the action. He sprang forward, caught her, and pushed the mirror back. Her head dropped on his arm.

The young girl ran forward with some water as Hagar placed Mrs. Detlor on the sofa. It was only a sudden faintness. The water revived her. Baron stood dumbfounded, a picture of helpless anxiety.

“I oughtn’t to have driveled about that accident,” he said. “I always was a fool.”

Mrs. Detlor sat up, pale, but smiling in a wan fashion. “I am all right now,” she said. “It was silly of me–let us go, dear,” she added to the young girl; “I shall be better for the open air–I have had a headache all morning. * * * No, please, don’t accuse yourself, Mr. Baron, you are not at all to blame.”