Philip, even as he stood upon the threshold, and before his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, was conscious of the presence of some one within the room beside himself, and gradually as the obscurity became penetrable he made out a dark figure sitting before the silent instrument, with bowed head, about whose throat and face hung heavy, clinging folds of black lace. Simultaneously with his discernment of this presence, he recognised its personality, and as he did so felt alarmed and electrified by the sudden rush and tumult which took possession of his being. The blood leapt to his face, he felt it throb in his temples and pulse in his veins, as he realised without further assurance, and before the bowed head was lifted and the pale, cold face gleamed out of the sombre surroundings, that it was Adèle Lamien who sat there, and that he was unreasonably glad and sorry, repentant and rejoicing, that he should thus have one more interview with her before he should vanish out of her life, as Patricia had already passed from out of his.
He advanced slowly and stood before her. As he approached, she dropped her protecting hands and sat silent, immovable, her pale face—pale with the pallor of mental conflict—looking strange and unearthly amidst its setting of falling black draperies, the dark bruise upon her cheek growing livid in the half lights. Suddenly, she threw back her head and smiled upon him.
It was but the second time he had ever seen her smile, and as the radiance and glory broke over her face and flooded it for one brief moment, with a brightness and transient loveliness, he started, for something in that smile and face, some strange, subtle, illusive likeness to some one whom he knew, and yet whom he could not name, grew into existence with the fleeting radiance, and faded with it before he could grasp at the reality. It was but a mere shadow of a resemblance, gone as soon as discovered, without substance, without reason, and yet perceptible, even when most baffling.
So sudden had been her transformation, and so rapid the return to the old habitual quietude and repression of her countenance, Philip found himself wondering if, after all, he was not under a delusion, or that his eyes, dulled by the dim obscurity of the room, had not mistaken the temporary flashing and paling of a sunbeam for that evanescent light on cheek and brow.
He had remained standing and silent, during the brief moment that elapsed between his entrance and her recognition; he bent over her now, and speaking quietly, said:
"I am fortunate, Mdlle. Lamien, in finding you—and alone."
"You are very kind," she answered, in a low, repressed voice, a voice that had through all its repression a throb of passion. "Surely Mr. Tremain can find pleasanter and more amusing companions than I."
"None who can interest me so deeply, believe me," replied Philip, gravely. "You have returned, mademoiselle, the better, I trust, for your absence?"
"My absence?" she queried, a little surprised; then more quickly, "Ah, yes, my absence; it was but an affair of hours, a necessity, not a pleasure. All the same, I thank you. I am better for the change."
Philip had waited for some sign of invitation to remain, but as none came, he grew bolder, interpreting her silence as best pleased him, and drawing up a low arm-chair, took his place beside her, at such an angle as enabled him to watch her face without effort.