Just then there was the sound of footsteps approaching the door—a measured masculine footfall. The emotional creature flew to the door, opened it, murmured a few words to some person without, and closed it, but not before a whiff of Latakia had been wafted into the flower-scented room. The footsteps moved away in another direction, and Christabel was much too absorbed to notice that faint breath of tobacco.
"There's not the least use in your giving him up," said Stella, resolutely: "he would never marry me. You don't know him as well as I do."
"Do I not? I have lived only to study his character for the best part of a year. I know he will do what is just."
Stella Mayne suddenly clasped her hands before her face and sobbed aloud.
"Oh, if I were only good and innocent like you!" she cried, piteously; "how I detest myself as I stand here before you!—how loathsome—how hateful I am!"
"No, no," murmured Christabel, soothingly, "you are not hateful: it is only impenitent sin that is hateful. You were led into wrong-doing because you were ignorant of right—there was no one to teach you—no one to uphold you. And he who tempted you is in duty bound to make amends. Trust me—trust me—it is better for my peace as well as for yours that he should do his duty. And now good-by—I have stayed too long already."
Again Stella Mayne fell on her knees and clasped this divine visitant's hand. It seemed to this weak yet fervid soul almost as if some angel guest had crossed her threshold. Christabel stooped and would have kissed the actress's forehead.
"No," she cried, hysterically, "don't kiss me—don't—you don't know. I should feel like Judas."
"Good-by, then. Trust me." And so they parted.
A tall man, with an iron-grey moustache and a soldier-like bearing, came out of a little study, cigarette in hand, as the outer door closed on Christabel. "Who the deuce is that thoroughbred-looking girl?" asked this gentleman. "Have you got some of the neighbouring swells to call upon you, at last? Why, what's the row, Fishky, you've been crying?"