"You wish to see me, madame?"
A clear, soft voice spoke. The door had quietly opened and a young girl entered.
Inez Catheron turned round, and for the second time in her life looked in the face of her cousin's wife.
Yes, it was his wife. The face she had seen under the trees of Powyss Place she saw again to-day in the London milliner's parlor. The same darkly handsome, quietly resolute young face, the same gravely beautiful eyes, the same slender, graceful figure, the same silky waves of blackish-brown hair. To her eyes there was no change; she had grown neither thinner nor paler; she had lost none of the beauty and grace that had won away Sir Victor Catheron's heart. She was very plainly dressed in dark gray of some cheap material, but fitting perfectly; linen bands at neck and throat, and a knot of cherry ribbon. And the slim finger wore no wedding-ring. She took it all in, in three seconds; then she advanced.
"I wished to see you. We are not likely to be disturbed?"
"We are likely to be disturbed at any moment. It is the room where Madame Mirebeau tries on the dresses of her customers; and my time is very limited."
The dark, grave eyes were fixed upon the close veil expectantly. Inez
Catheron threw it back.
"Edith!" she said—and at the sound of her name the girl recoiled—"you don't know me, but I think you will know my name. I am Inez Catheron."
She recoiled a step farther, her dark face paling and growing set—her large eyes seeming to darken and dilate—her lips setting themselves in a tense line. "Well?" was all she said.
Inez stretched out her hands with an imploring gesture, drawing near as the other retreated.