“So they all say.  Well, she is a clever girl, certainly—­only—­but you will soon find out what she is like.  Here’s Tommy going to give us that capital song about the bad cigar.  Ever heard it?  No?  Ha! ha!  It will make you laugh then.”

That is just what I hate about a comic performance.  One laughs under compulsion.  If one is sufficiently independent to resist, one incurs the suspicion of being wanting in humour and some well-meaning friend feels bound to explain the joke until one forces a little hollow mirth.  Directly the song was in full swing, and the audience convulsed with merriment, I seized my opportunity and fled from the drawing-room.  In the library I knew by experience that I should find a good fire and a comfortable arm-chair, both of which would be acceptable after my long journey.  It was separated from the rest of the house by a heavy baize door and a long passage, so that I was not likely to be disturbed by any stray revellers.  Several years’ experience of the comforts of a bachelor establishment has given me a great taste for my own society, and it was with unfeigned delight that I looked forward to a quiet half-hour in this haven of refuge.

“Bother Maitland!  Why doesn’t he have the house better warmed and lighted,” I muttered, as the baize door swung behind me, and the sudden draught extinguished my candle.  I would not go back to relight it for fear of encountering some officious friend in the hall, who would insist upon accompanying me into my retreat.  I preferred groping my way down the long corridor, which was in darkness except for a bright streak of moonlight that streamed in through a window at the further end.  I had just decided that it was my plain duty to give Maitland the address of a good shop where he could not only procure cheap lamps but also very serviceable stoves for warming passages, at a moderate price, when I discovered that the said window was open.

“Too bad of the servants,” I thought; “I should discharge them all if they were mine.  It quite accounts for the howling draught through the house.  Just the thing to give one rheumatism at this time of year.”

Advancing with the intention of excluding the chilly blast, I was suddenly arrested by the sight of a motionless figure kneeling in front of the window.  It was Irene Latouche.  I had not noticed her in the confusing patch of moonlight until my foot was almost on the heavy velvet dress which fell over the floor like a great dark pall.  Her arms were resting on the window-sill, her beautiful pale face gazing upwards with an expression of agonised despair.  Evidently she was quite unconscious of my presence.

Whilst I was turning over in my mind the possibility of beating a silent retreat, she gave a low groan, so full of unquenchable pain that my blood fairly ran cold.  Then rising to her feet, she leaned far out into the chill night air, stretching her white arms up towards the stars with a passionate action of entreaty.