CAMELIA felt, in the glaring pause Mr. Rodrigg made before Perior’s baffling presence, that she herself was the red scarf he sought. Her mind, alert in self-defence, even in this stress of joy and terror, divined some unknown danger. Mr. Rodrigg had faded into complete insignificance, put away with the other toys; she looked coldly at him, as at a dusty jack-in-the-box, protruding its fatuousness in a grown-up world. Yet she felt the necessity for self-command and quick intelligence. Something ominous shone in Mr. Rodrigg’s eye. The lid must be pressed down firmly, fastened securely; she was sure of her complete control over the silly plaything, but an extinguishing dexterity might be requisite.

“Well, Mr. Rodrigg,” she said; and her tone fully implied the undesirability of his presence.

“Can I see you alone, Miss Paton?”

Mr. Rodrigg’s voice was offensively strident. Camelia looked at Perior, who, from under lowering brows, bent ungracious eyes on Mr. Rodrigg’s flushed insistency.

“No, I don’t think you can—at present.” She did not want to vex Mr. Rodrigg—she spoke not unkindly; but Mr. Rodrigg was dense, coarsely dense, or else coarsely angry. Angry with her; Camelia had time by now to wonder at that, and to feel less amicable with the greater need for feigning amiability.

He closed the door with decision. “Then I will speak before Mr. Perior. As a family friend, Mr. Perior will not be amiss between us. He is a witness of the whole affair. I appeal to Mr. Perior. Miss Paton, I have just met Lady Henge. She tells me that you accepted her son this morning.”

Camelia grew white. Though Perior spoke no word, his stillness equalling hers, she felt a fixed stare turned upon her. Unforeseen catastrophe! She had hoped to glide noiselessly from the cardboard stage, to pack up and send away the useless, even though misused puppets; and now the whole scenery, heavy too, fell crushingly upon her, pinning her in the very centre of the stage. There she was held—the mimic properties were stone-like—there she was held in the full glare of the footlights; and he was staring at her.

She drew herself together and clasped her hands behind her back. Her little head, with the intent resoluteness of its look, had never been more beautiful. Even Perior, in the frozen fury of his stupefaction, was aware of that. The mute, white cameo on the dim, rosy background gazing with not a tremor at its own perfidy, stamped itself ineffaceably on his memory as a Medusa type of splendid, pernicious courage. For one brief moment she wondered swiftly—and her thoughts flew like sharp flames—if a round, clear lie would save her, save her in Perior’s eyes, for she saw herself as he saw her, was conscious only of him, and cared not a button for Mr. Rodrigg, the ugly raven merely who had croaked out the truth. The uselessness, the hopelessness of a lie, and too—in justice to her struggling better self be it added—shame for its smirch between her and him on the very threshold of true life—this hopelessness, this shame nerved her to the perilous truth-telling. Better his scorn for the moment, than a scorn delayed, but sure to find her out. Could she not explain—confess—on his breast, with tears? She did not look at Perior. Keeping fixed eyes on Mr. Rodrigg, an unpleasant but necessary medium for the communication, “Yes, Mr. Rodrigg, I did,” she said.

Perior at her side gave a short laugh, a cruel laugh. The moment was horrid; let it be hurried on, and Mr. Rodrigg, tool of the avenging gods, hurried out.

“Have you anything to say, Mr. Rodrigg?” she asked, conscious of hating Mr. Rodrigg, and, even at that moment, of a shoot of emphasized irritation with his nose, which caught the firelight bluntly.

“May I ask you, Miss Paton, if during these past weeks, you have always had that intention?” he inquired, speaking with some thickness of utterance.

“No, Mr. Rodrigg, you may not ask me that,” she returned.

The revelation of the man’s hopes was no longer to be evaded; she drank down the bitter draught perforce, her eyes on that squarely luminous nose-tip.

During the pause that followed Mr. Rodrigg’s eyes travelled up and down her with mingled scorn, wrath, and humiliation.

“Allow me to congratulate you,” he said at last, most venomously, “and to take my leave of you, Miss Paton. I have not understood, I perceive, the part I was supposed to play here.”

And Camelia was left alone with Perior. With an impression as of strong boxings on the ears she could only cry out “Odious vulgarian!” She tingled all over with a sense of insult.

“I, too, will bid you good-evening, Camelia,” said Perior. He could have taken her by the throat, but in the necessary restraint of that desire his glance, only, seized her as if it would throttle her.

“No! no!” she caught his arm, all thought of Mr. Rodrigg and his slaps burnt from her. “Listen to me—you don’t understand! Wait! I can explain everything! everything—so that you must forgive me!”

“I do understand,” said Perior, who stood still, scorning, as she felt, to touch and cast her off. “You are engaged to Arthur. You are disgraced—and I am disgraced.”

“Through me, then! You were ignorant! But wait—only listen—I am engaged to him; but I love you—don’t be too angry—for really I love you—only you—Oh! you must believe me!”

He retreated before her clasped imploring hands, she almost crying, following, indifferent to the indignity of her protesting supplication. “Indeed, I love you!” she reiterated, her chin quivering a little as the cruelty of his withdrawal brought the tears to her eyes.

Perior took the clasped hands by the wrists and held her off. “You love me?—and you love him too?”—she shook her head helplessly. “No; you have accepted him, not loving him, and you dared,”—the cruelty was now physical, as his clench tightened on her wrists—“you dared turn to me, to debase me with yourself, you false, you miserable creature!”

Under the double hurt she closed her eyes. “But why—but why did I turn?” she almost sobbed.

“You ask me why? Can I tell what folly, what vanity prompted you? Those are mild words.”

“Oh!—how you hurt me!” she breathed; the feminine sensitiveness was a refuge—a reproach. He released her wrists. “Because I love you,” she said, and standing still before him she looked at him through tears. “You may be angry, despise me, but I only want to tell you everything. You are so brutal. It was a mistake—I did not know—not till this evening. I accepted him because you would not prevent me—because you didn’t come—nor seem to care, and—yes, because I was bad—ambitious—vain—like other women—and I did like him—respect him. But now!”—the appealing monotone, broken by little gasps, wailed up at the inflexibility of his face—“it isn’t folly, it isn’t vanity—or why should I sacrifice everything for you, as I do—Oh! as I do!”

“Sacrifice everything for me? Go away!”

“Oh!—how can you!” She broke into sobs—“how can you be so cruel to me—when you love me!”

“Love you!”

“You cannot deny it! You know that you love me—dearest Alceste!”—her arms encircled his neck.

Perior plucked them off. “Love you?” he repeated, looking her in the face. “By Heaven I don’t!”

And with the negative he cast her away and left her.