There was no one else in sight.  Julia leaned for a long time against the area-rail at the corner, her eyes fixed on the front of the house.  The feeling of physical weariness had returned, but the strong tea still throbbed in her veins and lit her brain with an unnatural clearness.  Presently she heard another step draw near, and moving quickly away, she too crossed the street and mounted the steps of the house.  The impulse which had carried her there prolonged itself in a quick pressure of the electric bell—­then she felt suddenly weak and tremulous, and grasped the balustrade for support.  The door opened and a young footman with a fresh inexperienced face stood on the threshold.  Julia knew in an instant that he would admit her.

“I saw Mr. Arment going in just now,” she said.  “Will you ask him to see me for a moment?”

The footman hesitated.  “I think Mr. Arment has gone up to dress for dinner, madam.”

Julia advanced into the hall.  “I am sure he will see me—­I will not detain him long,” she said.  She spoke quietly, authoritatively, in the tone which a good servant does not mistake.  The footman had his hand on the drawing-room door.

“I will tell him, madam.  What name, please?”

Julia trembled:  she had not thought of that.  “Merely say a lady,” she returned carelessly.

The footman wavered and she fancied herself lost; but at that instant the door opened from within and John Arment stepped into the hall.  He drew back sharply as he saw her, his florid face turning sallow with the shock; then the blood poured back to it, swelling the veins on his temples and reddening the lobes of his thick ears.

It was long since Julia had seen him, and she was startled at the change in his appearance.  He had thickened, coarsened, settled down into the enclosing flesh.  But she noted this insensibly:  her one conscious thought was that, now she was face to face with him, she must not let him escape till he had heard her.  Every pulse in her body throbbed with the urgency of her message.

She went up to him as he drew back.  “I must speak to you,” she said.

Arment hesitated, red and stammering.  Julia glanced at the footman, and her look acted as a warning.  The instinctive shrinking from a “scene” predominated over every other impulse, and Arment said slowly:  “Will you come this way?”

He followed her into the drawing-room and closed the door.  Julia, as she advanced, was vaguely aware that the room at least was unchanged:  time had not mitigated its horrors.  The contadina still lurched from the chimney-breast, and the Greek slave obstructed the threshold of the inner room.  The place was alive with memories:  they started out from every fold of the yellow satin curtains and glided between the angles of the rosewood furniture.  But while some subordinate agency was carrying these impressions to her brain, her whole conscious effort was centred in the act of dominating Arment’s will.  The fear that he would refuse to hear her mounted like fever to her brain.  She felt her purpose melt before it, words and arguments running into each other in the heat of her longing.  For a moment her voice failed her, and she imagined herself thrust out before she could speak; but as she was struggling for a word, Arment pushed a chair forward, and said quietly:  “You are not well.”