“That’s the signal for me!” she said—­“I must run!  But oh do, do make it up with Maryllia and be friends!”

She rushed away.  He waited till she had disappeared, then turning back through the courtyard, slowly re-entered the house.

XXIII

The lights were burning low and dimly in the picture-gallery when he entered it and saw Maryllia there, pacing restlessly up and down, the folds of her dress with the ‘diamants’ sparkling around her as she moved, like a million little drops of frost on gossamer, while her small head, lifted proudly on its slim arched throat, seemed to his heated fancy, as though crowned with fresh coronals of gold woven from the summer sun.  Turning, she confronted him and paused irresolute,—­then, with a sudden impulsive gesture, came forward swiftly,—­her cheeks flaming crimson,—­her lips trembling, and her bosom heaving with its quickened breath like that of a fluttered bird.

“How dare you!” she said, in a low, strained voice—­“How dare you!”

He met her eyes,—­and in that moment individual and personal considerations were swept aside, and only the Right and the Wrong presented themselves to his mental vision, like witnesses from a higher world, invisible but omnipotent, waiting for the result of the first clash of combat between two human souls.  Yielding to his own over-mastering emotion, and reckless of consequences, he caught her two hands lightly in his own.

“And how dare you!” he said earnestly,—­“Little girl, how dare you so hurt yourself!”

They gazed upon one another,—­each one secretly amazed at the other’s outbreak of feeling,—­she grown white and speechless,—­he with a swift strong sense of his own power and authority as a mere man, nerving him to the utterance of truth for her sake—­for her sake!—­regardless of all forms and ceremonies.  Then he dropped her hands as quickly as he had grasped them.

“Forgive me!” he said, very softly,—­and paused, till recovering more of his self-possession, he continued quietly—­“You should not have sent for me, Miss Vancourt!  Knowing that I had offended you, I was leaving your house, never intending to enter it again.  Why did you summon me back?  To reproach me?  It would be kinder to spare me this, and let me go my own way!”

He waited for her to speak.  But she was silent.  Anger, humiliation and wounded pride, mingled with a certain struggling respect and admiration for his boldness, held her mute.  She little knew how provocatively lovely she looked as she stood haughtily immovable, her eyes alone flashing eloquent rebellion;—­she little guessed that John committed the picture of her fairness to the innermost recording cells of his brain, there to be stored up preciously, and never forgotten.

“I am sorry,”—­he resumed—­“that I spoke as I did just now at your table—­because you are angry with me.  But I cannot say that I am sorry for any other reason—­”