When John Lefolle met her, Cecilia was with her, and the first conversation was triangular.  Cecilia fired most of the shots; she was a bouncing, rattling beauty, chockful of confidence and high spirits, except when asked to do the one thing she could do—­sing!  Then she became—­quite genuinely—­a nervous, hesitant, pale little thing.  However, the suppliant hostess bore her off, and presently her rich contralto notes passed through the garden, adding to its passion and mystery, and through the open French windows, John could see her standing against the wall near the piano, her head thrown back, her eyes half-closed, her creamy throat swelling in the very abandonment of artistic ecstasy.

“What a charming creature!” he exclaimed involuntarily.

“That is what everybody thinks, except her husband,” Winifred laughed.

“Is he blind then?” asked John with his cloistral naivete.

“Blind?  No, love is blind.  Marriage is never blind.”

The bitterness in her tone pierced John.  He felt vaguely the passing of some icy current from unknown seas of experience.  Cecilia’s voice soared out enchantingly.

“Then, marriage must be deaf,” he said, “or such music as that would charm it.”

She smiled sadly.  Her smile was the tricksy play of moonlight among clouds of faery.

“You have never been married,” she said simply.

“Do you mean that you, too, are neglected?” something impelled him to exclaim.

“Worse,” she murmured.

“It is incredible!” he cried.  “You!”

“Hush!  My husband will hear you.”

Her warning whisper brought him into a delicious conspiracy with her.  “Which is your husband?” he whispered back.

“There!  Near the casement, standing gazing open-mouthed at Cecilia.  He always opens his mouth when she sings.  It is like two toys moved by the same wire.”

He looked at the tall, stalwart, ruddy-haired Anglo-Saxon.  “Do you mean to say he—?”

“I mean to say nothing.”

“But you said—­”

“I said ‘worse.’”

“Why, what can be worse?”

She put her hand over her face.  “I am ashamed to tell you.”  How adorable was that half-divined blush!

“But you must tell me everything.”  He scarcely knew how he had leapt into this role of confessor.  He only felt they were “moved by the same wire.”

Her head drooped on her breast.  “He—­beats—­me.”

“What!” John forgot to whisper.  It was the greatest shock his recluse life had known, compact as it was of horror at the revelation, shamed confusion at her candour, and delicious pleasure in her confidence.

This fragile, exquisite creature under the rod of a brutal bully!