“Thank you,” Maggie again murmured.

And as the two women sat there, sprung from the extremes of life, but for the moment on the level of equals, and as the older talked on, there grew up in Maggie two violently contradictory emotions.  One was triumph.  She had won out here, just as she had said she would win out; and won out with what Barney had declared to be the most difficult person to get the better of, a finished woman of the world.  Indeed, that was triumph!

The other emotion she did not understand so well.  And just then she could not analyze it.  It was an unexpected dismay—­a vague but permeating sickness—­a dazed sense that she was being carried by unfamiliar forces toward she knew not what.

She held fast to her sense of triumph.  That was the more apprehendable and positive; triumph was what she had set forth to win.  This sense of triumph was at its highest, and she was resting in its elating security, when a car stopped before the house and a large man got out and started up the steps.  From the first moment there was something familiar to Maggie in his carriage, but not till Miss Sherwood, who had risen and crossed toward him, greeted him as “Mr. Hunt,” did Maggie recognize the well-dressed visitor as the shabby, boisterous painter whom she had last seen down at the Duchess’s.

Panic seized upon her.  Miss Sherwood was leading him toward where she sat and his first clear sight of her would mean the end.  There was no possible escape; she could only await her fate.  And when she was denounced as a fraud, and her glittering victory was gone, she could only take herself away with as much of the defiance of admitted defeat as she could assume—­and that wouldn’t be much.

She gazed up at Hunt, whitely, awaiting extermination.  Miss Sherwood’s voice came to her from an infinite distance, introducing them.  Hunt bowed, with a formally polite smile, and said formally, “I’m very glad to meet you, Miss Cameron.”

Not till he and Miss Sherwood were seated and chatting did Maggie realize the fullness of the astounding fact that he had not recognized her.  This was far more upsetting to her than would have been recognition and exposure; she had been all braced for that, but not for what had actually happened.  She was certain he must have known her; nothing had really changed about her except her dress, and only a few weeks had passed since he had been seeing her daily down at the Duchess’s, and since she had been his model, and he had studied every line and expression of her face with those sharp painter’s eyes of his.

And so as the two chatted, she putting in a stumbling phrase when they turned to her, Maggie Carlisle, Maggie Cameron, Maggie Ellison, that gallant and all-confident adventuress who till the present had never admitted herself seriously disturbed by a problem, sat limply in her chair, a very young girl, indeed, and wondered how this thing could possibly be.