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had purposely stepped aside to let Lady Coldstream pass. By this manceuvre she succeeded in barring Ainslee's way to the dining-room.

"Well," she said, the moment they were alone. "Have you nothing to say to me?"

Her attitude was penitent, and for a moment he stared at her in surprise, unable to reconcile this humble pose with her conduct of the afternoon.

"Nothing you would care to hear," he said, turning away abruptly.

She went toward him and held out her hands appealingly. "Then you refuse to forgive?" she pleaded.

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "how can I? It was so heartless—so indecent!"

Renée bowed her head submissively. "Because I ask it," she said, "from the bottom of my heart. Can I do more?"

"You can go to my wife and tell her the truth."

She started angrily, then checked herself. In a moment she was all humility again. "And if I do as you ask?" she said. "If I go to her and humiliate myself for—for your sake? What then?"

"I may forgive," he answered, coldly. "But it would be hard—even then."

"How can you be so cruel?" she cried. "So unjust—here, in this room! If you had any heart you would remember."

"I remember only too well. The first taste of love is sweet enough—the bitterness lies in the dregs."

He was thinking of the time when he shared the studio with Wendell, and the painting of her portrait made her coming possible in the eyes of the world, in spite of the many days when the canvas was untouched. Unconsciously he glanced toward the window-seat, and she knew he was thinking of the moments they had passed together.

"Ah, you do remember! I knew you could not forget."

Norman Wendell came into the studio to find them. He saw her place a hand upon Ainslee's shoulder, and he drew back quickly. He had no wish to play the eavesdropper, but he could not help hearing her say, in a way that made him shudder at the thought of Margaret: "Why are the others here? Why are we not alone? We might have been."

Ainslee looked into her eyes, and his pulses throbbed with the mad longing to hold her in his arms.

"See," she whispered close to his face. "There is where we used to sit. Think, dear, of the old times."

For one brief moment he hesitated. Then, with a sudden realization of her treachery, he drew back in fear and anger.

"Do you honestly think you can trick me again?" he exclaimed.

"Why won't you believe me?" she said, with an injured look.

"Because you taught me unbelief," he answered, taking a step toward the dining-room.

She looked at him curiously, then turned away with a sigh. "And you think I do not care," she said, bitterly. "How little a man ever knows of a woman's heart!"

"A woman's heart," he muttered, "a Chinese puzzle, not worth the solving."

"I ought to hate you!" she exclaimed. "I have tried hard to hate you, but—but I can't. God knows it has been bitter—it is always the woman who suffers."

"Then be generous to her," he said.

"Do you think she cares?" Renée queried, significantly. "She has her Norman Wendell."

"Stop!” he commanded. "Not another word."

"You shall listen," she said, angrily. "Why, to-day I saw him holding her hand and kissing it. I heard him tell her that he loved her."

"I need better evidence than your word," he responded.

"What! When the whole world