Passing in review these phantom speculations, her eyes suddenly refused the vision of the mythical white road, stretching away in brain-sickening length, and her physical sight caught at the familiar picture revealed by the balcony—­the thrice-known, thrice-loved shrubbery, where already the glossy holly leaves were stirring under September’s fingers, whispering one to the other of fine cold autumn hours when gales would sweep the heights, bringing death to their frailer brethren, while they themselves nestled snug and strong, laughing at the elements.  She traced the familiar outline of these sturdy bushes, and her perfect triumph seemed like a winding sheet about her limbs.  She was above the world, removed from care, and all she knew was that she would have given her heart for one moment of the hot human grief that had seared her not four months ago.

She turned from the trees, turned from the stars and moved back into the unlighted room.  All was quiet and dim; she stumbled against the arm-chair and recoiled as though a friend had touched her inopportunely; then she passed blindly onward, finding the little hall, finding the outer door with groping hands.

Outside was a deeper darkness, for here no starlight penetrated; but M. Cartel’s door was ajar, and through the opening came a streak of lamplight and the hum of voices.

Pausing, Maxine caught the deep, humorous tones of M. Cartel himself, broken first by an unknown voice, quick, tense, typically Parisian, then by the light laugh of Jacqueline.

In her cruel perfection of triumph, she had no need to fear these voices—­these little evidences of sociability.  They could not hurt her, for was she not impervious to pain?

Another laugh, full and contented, came to her ear, then the opening of the piano and the masterful striking of a chord.

A murmur of pleasure gave evidence of an audience, and instinctively she moved forward, as a wanderer on a dark night draws near to a lighted dwelling.  Gaining the door, she softly pushed it open, as M. Cartel executed a roulade, which melted into a brilliant piece of improvization.

A bright lamp shone in the hall; but beyond, the open door of the living-room displayed a half-lighted interior, with a handful of people grouped about it.  Foremost figure was M. Cartel seated at his music within a radius of yellow light shed by four candles, while, beside him, a tall thin boy, and, behind him, Jacqueline seemed enclosed in a secondary, fainter circle of luminance.  The rest of the room was in shadow, and as Maxine entered, she scarcely noticed the three other occupants—­two men and a woman—­who sat in a row close to the door, their backs to the wall.

No one commented upon her entry.  The little Jacqueline glanced round once, smiling a quick welcome, but returned immediately to her contemplation of M. Cartel; the younger of the two men by the door—­an Italian—­paused in the lighting of a cigarette, but his companion—­an old Polish Jew with a classic head and long, gray beard—­retained his attitude of rapt attention, while the woman, who sat a little apart, and whose large black hat hid her face, made no sign.