If only Ivor had arrived a quarter of an hour earlier, at the time appointed, I should have hurried him away before this, so that I might write to Raoul; but now I could not think what to do for the best—­what to do, that things might not be made far worse instead of better between Raoul and me.  I had suffered so much that my power of quick decision, on which I’d so often prided myself vaingloriously, seemed gone.

“It is Raoul,” I said.  “What shall I do?”

“Let him in, of course, and introduce me.  Don’t act as if you were afraid.  Say that I came to see you on important business concerning a friend of yours in England, and had to call after the theatre because I’m leaving Paris by the first train in the morning.”

“No use.”

“Why not?  When a man loves a woman, he trusts her.”

“No man of Latin blood, I think.  And Raoul’s already angry.  He has the right to be—­or would have, if Godensky had been telling him the truth.  And I refused to let him come here.  I said I was going straight to bed, I was so tired.  He’s knocking again.  Hide yourself, and I’ll let him in.  Oh, why do you stand there, looking at me like that?  Go into that room,” and I pointed, then pushed him towards the door.  “You can get through the window and out of the garden—­softly—­while Raoul and I are talking.”

“If you insist,” said Ivor.  “But you’re wrong.  The best thing—­”

“Go—­go, I tell you.  Don’t argue.  I know best,” I cut him short, in a sharp whisper, pushing him again.

This time he made no more objections, but went into the adjoining room, my boudoir.  The key was in the door; I turned it in the lock, snatched it out, and dropped it into a bowl of flowers on a table close by.  That done, I flew out of the drawing-room into the little entrance hall, and opened the front door.  There stood Raoul, his face dead white, and very stern in the light of the hall lamp.  I had never seen him like that before.

“I know why you’re here,” I began quickly, before he could speak.  “Count Godensky told me what he said to you.  I—­hoped you would come.”

“Is this why you wished to know what I would do if you deceived me?” he asked, with the bitterest reproach in eyes and voice.

“No.  For I hadn’t deceived you,” I answered.  “I haven’t deceived you now.  If you loved me, you’d believe me, Raoul.”

I put out my hand and took his.  He gave mine no pressure, but he let me draw him into the house.

“For God’s sake, give me back my faith in you, if you can,” he said.  “It’s death to lose it.  I came here wanting to die.”

“After you’d killed me, as you said?”

“Perhaps.  I couldn’t keep away.  I had to come.  If you have any explanation, for the love of Heaven, tell me what it is.”

“You know me, and you know Godensky—­yet you need an explanation of anything evil said of me by him?” In this way I hoped to disarm Raoul; but he had been half-mad, I think, and was scarcely sane now, such a power had jealousy over his better self.