“Don’t be frightened, dear young lady.  I am not here to judge, but to explain.  Yes, I know my husband loves you.  But do not believe in him.  He is a terrific man.”  This word she emphasized as if doubtful of its meaning.  “Ah, if you but knew the inferno of my existence!  There are so many like you—­stop, do not leave!  You are not to blame.  I, Lillias Keroulan, do not censure your action.  My husband is an evil man and a charlatan.  Hear me out!  He has only the gift of words.  He steals all his profundities of art from dead philosophers.  He is not a genuine poet.  He is not a dramatist.  I swear to you that he is now the butt of artistic Paris.  The Princesse de Lancovani made him—­she is another of his sort.  He was the mode; now he is desperate because his day has passed.  He knows you are rich.  He desires your money, not you.  I discovered that he was coming here this day.  Oh, I am cleverer than he.  I followed.  Here I am to save you from him—­and from yourself—­he is not now below in the salon.”

“Please go away!” indignantly answered Ermentrude.  She was furious at this horrible, plain-spoken, jealous creature.  Save her from herself—­as if ever she had wavered!  The disinterested adoration she had entertained for the great artist—­what a hideous ending was this!  The tall, blond woman with the narrow, light blue eyes watched the girl.  How could any one call her handsome, Ermentrude wondered!  Then her visitor noticed the crumpled letter on the table.  With a gesture of triumph she secured it and smiling her superior smile she left, closing the door softly behind her.

Only kissed hands are white!  Ermentrude threw herself on the couch, her cheeks burning, her heart tugging in her bosom like a ship impatient at its anchorage.  And was this the sordid end of a beautiful dream?...

“Do you know, dearest, we have had such news!” exclaimed Mrs. Sheldam as she entered, and so charged with her happiness that she did not notice the drawn features of her niece.  “Charlie, Charlie will be here some time next week.  He arrives at Havre.  He has just cabled his father.  Let us go down to meet the boy.”  Charlie was the only son of the Sheldams and fonder of his cousin than she dare tell herself.  She burst into tears, which greatly pleased her aunt.

In the train, eight days later, Ermentrude sat speechless in company with her aunt and uncle.  But as the train approached Havre she remembered something.

“Aunt Clara,” she bravely asked, “do you recall the afternoon we spent at the Keroulans’?  What did Madame Keroulan tell you then?  Is it a secret?” She held tightly clenched in her hand the arm-rest at the side of the compartment.