But to say that he hated being there is but a mild term for the rage and disgust he experienced.

To be waylaid and attacked thus, directly he had set foot in the house, with a stranger and three servants looking on so as to render him absolutely helpless; to be uncomfortably hurried over his toilet, and inveigled into a sort of rendezvous at the foot of a public staircase, where a number of people might at any minute enter from any one of the six or eight surrounding doors, was enough of itself to try his temper; but when he came to consider how Helen, in thus appropriating him and making him obey her caprices, was virtually breaking her side of the treaty between them; that she was exacting from him the full amount of servitude and devotion which an open engagement would demand, and yet she had agreed to deny any such engagement between them openly—­it was, he felt, more than he could continue to bear with meekness.

Meekness, indeed, was in no way Maurice Kynaston’s distinguishing characteristic.  He was masterful and imperious by nature; to be the slave of any woman was neither pleasant nor profitable to him.  Honour, indeed, had bound him to Helen, and had he loved her she might have led him.  Her position gave her a certain hold over him, and she knew how to appeal to his heart; but he loved her not, and to control his will and his spirit was beyond her power.

Maurice said to himself that he would put a stop to this system of persecution once and for all—­that this interview, which she herself had contrived, should be made the opportunity of a few forcible words, that should frighten her into submission.

So he stood fretting, and fuming, and raging, waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.

There was a soft rustle, as of a woman’s dress, behind him.  He turned sharply round.

Halfway down the stairs came a woman whom he had never seen before.  A black velvet dress, made high in the throat, with a wide collar of heavy lace upon her shoulders, hung clingingly about the outlines of her tall and perfect figure; her hands, with some lace ruffles falling about her wrists, were simply crossed before her.  The light of a distant hanging-lamp shone down upon her, just catching one diamond star that glittered among the thick coils of her hair—­she wore no other ornament.  She came down the stairs slowly, almost lingeringly, with a certain grace in her movements, and without a shadow of embarrassment or self-consciousness.

Maurice drew aside to let her pass him—­looking at her—­for how could he choose but look?  But when she reached the bottom of the steps, she turned her face towards him.

“You are Maurice—­are you not?” she said, and put forth both her hands towards him.

An utter bewilderment as to who she was made him speechless; his mind had been full of Helen and his own troubles; everything else had gone out of his head.  She coloured a little, still holding out her hands to him.