“Yes, I was in love once—­” she admitted to him one evening as they sat alone.  She blushed as she tripped at the word “before.”  Hedworth had made no declaration as yet; they were still playing with electricity, and content with sparks.  “At least, I thought I was.  All girls have their love freaks.  I had had several—­when I was in my teens.  This seemed more serious, the grande passion—­because there was an obstacle:  he was married.  If he had been free, if there had been no barrier between myself and what I wanted, I think it would have been quite different.  You see, I had had my own way so long that the situation, combined, of course, with the man himself—­who was very magnetic—­fascinated me; and I let myself go, to see what it would be like to long for something I could not have.  I suppose it was my imagination that was at work principally; but I ended by believing myself frantically in love with him.”

Hedworth stood up as she paused, and leaned against the mantel, looking down at her.  They were in her boudoir, a yellow satin room that looked like a large jewel-casket.  Lady Carnath’s long slender round figure betrayed its perfections in a gown of black chiffon; on her white neck and arms and in her black hair were many diamonds; she had dressed for the opera, then given the evening to Hedworth.  Her dark face was delicately modelled; the mouth and chin were very firm, but the lips were full and red.  The eyes in repose were a trifle languid, in animation mutable and brilliant.  The brows were finely pencilled, and the soft dark hair, brushed back from a low forehead, added to the general distinction of her appearance.  Hedworth studied her face as he had studied it many times.

“Well?” he asked.  He had an abrupt voice, suggestive of temper, and the haughty bearing which is the chief attraction of Englishmen for American women.  His face was as well chiselled as the average of his kind, but lacked the national repose.  The eyes were very clever, the features mobile; the tenacity and strength of his nature were indicated in the lower part of his face and in the powerful yet supple build of the man.

“Well, what?”

“What sort of a man was this Johnny?”

“Oh, I am not very good at describing people—­quite different from you—­much lighter—­”

“I don’t care what he looked like.  A man only looks to a woman who is in love with him as she imagines he looks.  Was he in love with you?”

“Yes, of course he was.”

“Did he tell you so?”

The delicate red in Lady Carnath’s dark cheek deepened.  “Yes.  He did.”

“Did you tell him that you loved him?”

“Yes.”

“What did he do?”

“I don’t know that you have any right to be so curious.”

“Of course you need not answer if you don’t wish.  Did he kiss you?”

“Yes, he did, if you want to know.  We had a tremendous scene.  I went into high tragics, and, I suppose, bored the poor man dreadfully.”