X.
DEADLY FAIR.
A month had elapsed.
In the exquisite little drawing-room of a first-floor flat in Victoria Street, Westminster, where tender lights filtered through the golden shadows of silken hangings, sat Valerie. Her attitude was one of repose—deep, unruffled. From the crown of her handsome head to the tip of her dainty shoe she was perfect. With her eyes fixed seriously upon the ceiling, she sat crouching in her chair with all the abandon of a dozing tigress. The room, a glowing blaze of color, and carpeted with rich skins, was a fitting jungle. With all a woman's cunning she had chosen a tea-gown of pale heliotrope silk, which, falling in artistic folds, gave sculptural relief to her almost angular outline, and diffused a faint breath of violets about her.
She gave a stifled yawn and drew a heavy breath, as one does when encountering some obstacle that must be overcome.
"I wonder whether he will come?" she exclaimed, aloud.
As she uttered these words the door opened, and Nanette, her discreet French maid, entered.
"M'sieur Trethowen," she announced.
He followed quickly on the girl's heels, with a fond, glad smile.
