The door had closed.
He rose slowly from a chair near the fire, and walked towards her.
“Dieu! Jack! Why, what means this?” she cried in amazement, when she recognised him.
“You have company to-night,” observed the artist, without offering to shake hands. “I thought it probable that, under the circumstances, you would not grant an interview to an old friend.”
“How absurd! Why, you must know you are always a welcome guest here,” and she beamed upon him one of her sweetest smiles.
As she stood before him in the subdued light he gazed upon her in hesitation. Her costume was perfect, enhanced as it was by a sparkling diamond star in her hair and a necklet of exquisite brilliants. Her dress was of white silk, with very high sleeves, mounted in a sort of ball at the shoulder, hanging draperies from the arms representing wings, which expanded as she moved, and silver bands around a very high waist and under and across each arm.
“The welcome you accord me is somewhat premature,” he observed meaningly. “No doubt you have a morbid satisfaction in seeing the man who is under your thrall—the miserable, deluded fool who stained his hands with a terrible crime for your sake, yet you—”
“Why refer to that horrid affair?”, she asked, shuddering slightly. “Let’s forget it.”
“No doubt you wish that dark page in your history to be closed,” he said ominously; “but, strangely enough, it is upon that very subject I have sought this interview.”
“What do you want, pray?” she asked quickly.