fiery face, and then—­then—­something that was not passion forced me to fly from it for the salvation of my soul.  I was a fool!  Why am I here, when I should be where he——­What is the hour?  Why, it is scarcely twelve o’clock!  Did I say nine in my letter?  What does it matter?  I wonder if on that wonderful night—­Gounod translated its glory into music—­Juliet kept her lover waiting for three hours.”

“What are you doing?” cried Phyllis, rising.

Ella had picked up her theatre wrap—­it was a summer cloud brocaded with golden threads of quivering sunlight, and had flung it around her.

She held out a hand to Phyllis.  Phyllis grasped her round the waist.

“Where are you going?” she said.

“To hell!”

She had whispered the words, and at their utterance Phyllis gave a cry of horror and covered her face with her hands.

Had she seen a suggestion of the satyr in the expression of that lovely face before her?

In the pause that followed the sound of footsteps upon the stairs outside was heard; the sound of footsteps and of men’s friendly laughter.  Some persons were in the act of ascending.

“My God!” whispered Ella.  “He has followed me here!”

“Hush!” said Phyllis.  “Papa is bringing someone to us.”

“Whom—­whom?”

They were both standing together in the middle of the room, both having their eyes fixed on the door, when the door opened and Mr. Ayrton appeared, having by his side a man with iron-gray hair and a curiously pallid face.

At the sight of that man Ella’s hands, that had been holding her wrap close to her throat, feeling for its silver clasp, fell limp, and the splendid mass of white brocade slipped to the floor and lay in folds about her feet, revealing her lovely figure sparkling from the hem of her dress to the top of her shapely head.

CHAPTER XXI.

THAT TOILET SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN WASTED.

For several seconds the tableau remained unchanged:  the two women standing side by side, the two men motionless at the half-open door.

Ella was staring at the man who had entered with Mr. Ayrton.  There was some apprehension in her eyes.

The man had his eyes fixed upon her.  But his face was wholly devoid of expression.

Phyllis was the first to break the silence that made a frame, so to speak, for the picture.

“How do you do, Mr. Linton?” she said, taking a step toward the door.

“I am very well, thank you, Miss Ayrton,” the man replied, shaking hands with her.  “Rather a singular hour for a visit, is it not?”

“Oh, no! only Ella didn’t tell me that you——­”

She turned to Ella, and noticed that the expression of apprehension on her face had increased.  She was still gazing at her husband as one shut up in a room with a snake might gaze at it, waiting for it to strike.