For a moment Laura looked at her in a surprise caused less by the other’s entrance than by her own inward composure.  For weeks she had told herself that she hated Madame Alta in her heart, yet, brought face to face with her, feeling the soft pressure of her hand, she realised that she had hated merely a creature of straw and not this woman whose humanity was, after all, of the same flesh and blood and spirit as her own.  By the wonder of her intuition she had recognised in her first glance the thing which Kemper, for all his worldly knowledge, had missed in his more intimate association, and this was that the soul of the woman before her had not perished, but was still tossed wildly in the fires of art, of greed, of sensuality.  Between her lover and the prima donna she knew that for this one instant at least, she was strong enough to stand absolutely detached and incapable of judgment.  And in a sudden light, as from a lamp that was turned inward, she saw that if she could but maintain this attitude of pity, she would place her happiness beyond any harm from the attacks of Madame Alta or of her kind.  She saw this, yet she felt that the vision was almost useless, for even while she stood there the light went out and she knew that it would not shine for her again.

“I know but little of that side of him,” she answered, smiling.  “It is pleasant to hear that he has a gift I did not suspect.”

“Oh, I dare say he has others,” retorted Madame Alta, “but I came about these very speculations to-day,” she added, “and since he isn’t at home—­if you’ll let me—­I’ll leave a note on his desk.  I start for Chicago to-night for a month of continuous hard work.  Until you know what it is to race about the country for your life,” she wound up merrily, “never stop to waste your pity on a day labourer.”

With a smiling apology to Gerty, she crossed to Kemper’s desk, where she wrote a short note which she proceeded coolly to place in an envelope and seal.  As she moistened the flap of the envelope with her lips, she turned to glance at Laura over her ermine stole.

“I hope you’ll remember to tell him that my visit was by no means thrown away, since I saw you,” she remarked, with her exaggerated sweetness.

“Why not wait and tell him yourself?” suggested Laura, so composedly that she wondered why her heart was beating quickly, “he’ll probably be back in a few minutes for tea, and in that case it wouldn’t be necessary for me to deliver so flattering a message.”

“Oh, but I want you to—­I particularly want you to,” insisted the other, creating, as she rose, a lovely commotion by the flutter of her lace veil and her ostrich feathers.  “I send him my liveliest congratulations, and the part he’ll like best is that I am able to send them by you.”

The door closed softly after her, and Gerty, going to the window, threw it open with a bang which served as an outlet to the emotion she lacked either the courage or the opportunity to put into words.