Sappho had been taking her meals with the family lately, but tonight she excused herself from dinner on the plea of a headache. Will had gone back to the hotel.
“Headache must be a great cosmetic,” said Dora slyly. She had seen that Will and Sappho returned from morning church together and from certain signs had drawn her own conclusions about how matters stood between them. “I never remember seeing you look better or more beautiful than you do tonight.” Sappho laughed joyously as she ran lightly up the stairs to her room. Tomorrow they would know her secret.
She glanced at her mirror as she passed it. Where was the usually pale, sad face that it reflected? They called her cold and proud. What would the world say if it could see that brilliant, vivid, flashing beauty that the mirror gave back to her astonished gaze? Truly love was a wonderful cosmetic. She sank into the inviting willow rocker, and for a while gave herself up to the happiness which was so intense as to be almost painful. There was no thought of evil mingled with the joy that wrapped her round about. No forebodings assailed her; the intoxication of the moment was complete. She was lost in dreamland as she sat there thinking of her lover. Will had said to her: “I am not a man to hold love lightly; it is no jest with me. My love is the one woman in the whole world to me above all others. I shall love you living and dying, and be true to you in life and death.” The words rang in her ears like sweetest music.
There were extra services at all the colored churches that night, because owing to the fact that most of the worshippers were employed as domestic servants, evening was the only time convenient for their employers to spare their services. She heard the outer door close upon one after another until the house settled down to the perfect quiet of solitude.
She then arose from her seat and proceeded to change her street attire for a pale blue cashmere house dress with delicate ecru lace at the throat and wrists. She hummed strains of the Gloria heard that morning in church as she stood before the glass and took the pins from her hair. The shining coil of burnished gold fell almost to her feet. So she stood with the brushes poised in air as the door opened softly and John Langley came quickly into her room. Thus they stood for a brief second of time: she colorless with amazement and fear; he overwhelmed with the exquisiteness of the picture before him. The brushes falling from her hands broke the silence. Anger flamed in her eyes.
“I did not hear you knock, Mr. Langley; what can I do for you?”
His face was pale, his eyes wavering and bloodshot; his whole expression indicated a terrible determination. The almost insulting coldness of her tone exasperated him.
“I did not knock,” he replied, as he stepped into the room. “You do not offer me a seat,” he sneered, as he sat down on the couch.
“This is hardly the time or place for parlor civilities,” she replied significantly. “Do you not know that the house is empty?”
“I do; and as I wish to speak with you privately, and as this is my only chance, I will not let it slip me,” said John.
“Really! I cannot understand what private business you can have with me,” returned Sappho haughtily; “but if it be so, pray state the nature of it as quickly as possible.”
“I will,” he replied. He paused a moment, as if collecting his forces. “You and Will seem to have come to an understanding, judging by what I saw on the Public Garden this morning,” he said finally.
Sappho flushed warmly as she replied: “And in what way does that concern you?”
The girl looked so beautiful and spirited that he longed to crush her with the weight of his surmises.
“Will Smith is a very proud man as well as a very just man. His pride of family is his besetting sin. Do you think that it will be for his best interest to marry you?” he asked significantly.
“And why should it not be?” questioned the girl haughtily, although a hand of ice seemed closing about her heart.
“You can best answer that question,” was the guarded reply.
“Mr. Langley, your intrusion into my private apartment is unpardonable; your innuendoes are still more so. If you have anything to say, please say it; if not, let us close this remarkable interview.” She moved toward the door as if to open it. In an instant he seized her arm and stopped her.
“Do not be rash. It is better for you to listen to me and not arouse my enmity. I have seen Luke Sawyer, and I know your secret—Mabelle Beaubean!”
The attack was so sudden she did not think of defending herself. He had never in his life seen emotion so terrible depicted upon the human countenance as her face presented at that moment. She shrank from him with shivering dread, beating the air with both hands, as though in her agony she warded off the approach of some gruesome
