Sonia said nothing to Martha of that meeting and conversation at the atelier; and as Martha made no reference to it, she understood that Harold also had been silent on the subject.

A few days went by, which were fraught with agitation to the pupils at Etienne’s, as they were the last days of April, and two or three of the atelier students were to exhibit in the Salon. Sonia’s picture had been entered under a fictitious name, rather against her master’s wishes; but he had found it impossible to move her on this point. She had made both Etienne and Martha promise her most solemnly to tell no one which was her picture; and so she looked forward to the great exhibition with a pleasure which had no disturbing element in it.

This pleasure had, however, grown paler recently, as her hold on all outward things, slight as she had thought it before, had grown weaker. She had felt a real emotion when told that her picture had been admitted by the jury, and an intense anxiety as to how it would be hung. In contrast to this was the languid interest which she experienced when she found that it was on the line.

Martha and she had gone to the Vernissage on the thirtieth of April, and had stood before the picture together; but it was Martha who had flushed and fluttered with delight at the remarks upon it which they had overheard. Sonia herself seemed to have lost interest in it.

On the morning of the Vernissage Harold had gone to London, to be absent until the next day, when he was to take Martha to the formal opening of the Salon.

There was, therefore, no reason why Sonia should not accept her friend’s invitation to dine and spend the evening. When she saw what pleasure her acceptance gave the girl, her heart suddenly smote her with the reflection that she did very little to reward such ardent love, and she impetuously offered to spend the night also, saying that she had not done such a thing since her school-days.

Martha was overjoyed; and when Sonia duly arrived, prepared to spend the night, the two women made a great effort to get the amount of enjoyment which they felt ought to be for each in their tÊte-À-tÊte dinner and evening together. Their talk, however, seemed rather desultory and unproductive, and both of them felt that their endeavors to return to their former attitude of free and natural mutual confidence were strangely unavailing.

After a rather dull discussion of Paris apartment-houses, and their advantages and disadvantages, Martha proposed to show her guest over this one; and Sonia went with her into all the rooms, with a civil effort to seem interested, until she came to one on the threshold of which Martha said:

“This is the girls’ room, which Harold has now. It is just next to mama’s, which is the one you have. The governess has a room on the other side of the salon, in order to protect me. They tell such frightful stories about the crimes and murders in these Paris apartments that I used to be quite timid, though I’ve got over it now.”

Sonia, while she appeared to be listening to her companion, was in reality so inwardly shaken by certain influences received in this room that she felt as if her mind were staggering. On the dressing-table just in front of her were several toilet articles in old German silver which it seemed to her that she had seen and touched but yesterday. A clothes-brush with fantastic decorations of women’s figures, entwined with fish and garlands of roses, had a large dent in it, of which she knew the whole history. She could even have told why one of the three bottles in the leather-case was without a stopper, and what had become of the smallest pair of scissors, the place of which in the dressing-case was empty. On a table near by was a leather portfolio with the letters “H. R. K.” on one corner in a silver monogram.

While Martha moved about the room and talked, Sonia’s eyes searched eagerly among the familiar objects for certain others which she would have given the world to see. Her search was in vain, however. There was not one thing of his own in sight which had not been a possession of his bachelor days. This was quite evident, and of course was entirely as it should be.

When they returned to the salon, Martha, observing that her friend looked tired, proposed that they should go to bed early—an idea received with evident favor. They were quite safe in the protection of the man-servant, who had been brought with the family from America. Harold had given him orders to sleep for the night in the antechamber, and Martha had one of the maids in the room back of hers. When she asked her guest if she felt at all timid, and saw the smile of amused denial that answered her, she went with her to her room, lingered a few moments to see that all was comfortable about her, then kissed and embraced her friend, and said good night.

Left alone, Sonia stood an instant silent in her place; then, with movements of swift decision, she locked the door by which Martha had gone out, and, crossing the room to another door, softly turned the handle. She had her bedroom candle in her hand, and as the door yielded and opened, she passed into the room beyond it, and stood still once more, as if possessed by that presence from out the past.

The lights in this room had been put out, and all the doors and windows closed. She knew that she was safe in her solitude, and need no longer struggle with the feelings which crowded her heart.

She went to the dressing-table, and took up the old clothes-brush, and put her lips to the dent which she herself had made there once, by using the brush as a hammer. Then silently dashing away the heavy tears that rolled from her eyes, she looked closely at the grotesque figures of women and fish, and recalled such amusing things which had been said about them that she began to laugh, even while more tears were gathering, and straining her throat with pain. The nervous little laugh died away as she pressed the brush again to her lips. Then she lifted, one by one, all the familiar objects that lay before her, and looked at them, while her tears fell like rain.

Presently she took up the portfolio from the table near by, and turned over the thick sheets of blotting-paper within. She could see plainly the inverted and almost illegible, but characteristic, impression of a woman’s writing. In some places this was lost in very different characters, but in others it was distinctly recognizable. She walked to the dressing-table with it, and held it before the mirror, and read distinctly in one place the words, “Yours always, Sophie,” and in another, “Yours faithfully, Sophia Keene.” Her heart trembled. She had no idea to whom she had so signed herself, but she wondered passionately if Harold had ever tried this experiment, and seen those signatures from the faithless woman who had been his wife.

Suddenly she put the book back on the table, and fell on her knees before it, laying her face upon its pages, and sobbing upon them until they were saturated with her tears; for, underneath her own handwriting, she had seen, reflected in the glass, writing which seemed almost as familiar, in which she had deciphered the words, “Your loving husband.”

She had destroyed every word of that handwriting which she had ever possessed, and thousands of times her heart had hungered to see it in these very words. It was upon this spot that her lips were laid now, while they whispered out, in inarticulate sobs and gasps, words of heartbroken pain.

She had told him that she did not love him, and had demanded a divorce from him. She must never contradict those words, or try to undo that act. She knew that she was weak, but she knew that she had courage enough to stand to this resolution. He should never know how, slowly at first, and afterward with increasing force and swiftness, the knowledge of her mistake had come to her. For a while she had fought it off with furious denial. She had argued and talked with herself, and recalled past feelings of resentment, anger, and desperate antagonism, to prove to herself that she had been right in vowing that she did not love him; but in the end nothing had availed. Long before their paths had met again she had known that she was wrong; that she had made a hideous mistake of her life; and that, with all the force, fire, energy, and passion of her heart, she loved the man whom she had repudiated. But, even with this knowledge, she might have borne it, she might have lived and died without making a sign, if only she had not seen him again!

Now, however, that she had seen him, heard him, felt the atmosphere of his presence about her, felt his thoughts of her surrounding her, and felt through all her pulses his touch upon her hand, what was she to do? How was she to stumble on, and pretend to fight, when a mere look from his eyes made her sword-arm nerveless?

Oh, she must give way this once, she felt, and shed a few of those millions of pent-up tears! Now that she was here in the very room that he had slept in yesterday, and would come back to to-morrow, she must let the spirit of love and grief within her have its way. Perhaps some remnant of it might linger after she was gone, and speak to his heart from hers.

As her mind formed this idea, she sprang to her feet. Was she losing control of herself? Was her mind weakening or deserting her? How had she so forgotten herself as to have this thought, which was in its nature a wish? She knew that in her proper senses she would choose to die a death of torture rather than that he should have one suspicion of her feeling for him. No, no! She passionately recanted that moment’s impulsive wish as she took her candle, and, more tranquil now, went over and stood by his bed.

It was not swathed in a great cretonne cover, as French beds are apt to be, but was made in the American fashion, with smooth white coverlet and fair linen sheets. Still holding the candle in her hand, she sank on her knees beside this bed, and closed her eyes, and moved her lips in prayer. Her long hair was hanging in a thick mass down her back. The white gown that she wore was almost as plain as a religious habit, and she looked, with her taper burning in front of her, like a nun before a shrine.

She felt a certain power of renunciation come into her, and a strength to do what right and duty demanded. She rose from her knees, and bent over the bed, and for a moment laid her cheek against the cool white pillow. Oh, might God be very good to him, she prayed! Might He make up to him for all the pain and grief and woe that she had caused him; and some time in heaven might he come to know how wholly and completely she had loved him!

She felt a sense of inward calm and strength as she turned from the bed, crossed the room, and entered her own apartment, closing and locking the door behind her.

This peace was on her still as she presently went to bed, and fell almost immediately into a dreamless sleep.