"I'll begin to dress--now," Monica said coldly.

But the girl's anxiety was too sincere.

"But, madam, it is only half-past five! Dinner--dinner is at eight."

Monica turned away coldly, and seated herself upon the ottoman, which stood in the center of the room.

"I will dress now," she said finally.

Margaret understood her charge. It was useless to protest when Monica's mind was made up. So she set about her work at once.

Monica watched her as she threw open the wardrobes. Her eyes followed her as she vanished to prepare the bath. But it was not with any interest. The girl's movements simply conveyed a sense of activity to her. That was all. But it helped her. It helped her, in the midst of her teeming thought, as nothing else could have done.

She endured the process of her toilet like one in a dream. Nor was it until it came to the necessary selection of a gown that she displayed any real interest. Then she roused herself and startled Margaret with her peevish indecision. Nothing seemed to please her. Several new gowns, just home from the extravagant costumer, who poured "creations"

upon her, were flung ruthlessly aside before the girl's dismayed eyes.

She would have none of them, and Margaret was at her wit's end.

There were only a few simple black gowns left, and Margaret hated black. But what was she to do? She produced them, being careful, at the same time, to display her own disapproval. Promptly selection was made.

Monica knew the value of soft black chiffon against her beautiful fair hair and fairer skin. No one knew it better.

Another uncomfortable half hour was spent while the girl dressed her mistress's hair. Never had Monica been so difficult to please. But even this was finally satisfactorily achieved, and Margaret sighed her relief.

However, her surprises were not yet done with. There was still another forthcoming. Monica surveyed herself in the mirror. She gazed at herself from every point of view. She beheld a perfectly molded figure, unusually tall, with the delicious tint of flesh like alabaster glowing warmly through the gauzy folds of the simple black chiffon of which her gown was composed. She saw a face that was slightly pale, but of exquisite, mature beauty. She saw eyes of a deep blue, full of warmth, full of that precious suggestion of pa.s.sionate possibilities which no man can witness unmoved. And even in those moments of trouble she knew that she had done well in her choice of gowns. She knew that she was very beautiful.

She turned at last to the waiting girl, who was gazing at her in open admiration.

"Go and find out if Mr. Hendrie has come in yet. If he hasn't, leave word I am to be told the moment he arrives. Also, let him be told that I wish to see him in the library before he goes to dress."

The girl moved toward the door.

"One moment." Monica spoke over her shoulder. "Put the rouge out for me, and--an eye pencil."

This final order was too much for the girl's sense of the beautiful.

"But, madam," she cried. "Oh, madam is too beautiful for----"

"Do as I tell you!"

The order came sharply, almost harshly, and Margaret hastened to obey.

For once Monica was stirred out of her customary kindliness. Her nerves were on edge. She had yet to face an ordeal, which, with each pa.s.sing moment, was slowly sapping her courage. She knew she had none to spare, and dreaded lest her strength should fail her at the last.

Monica was standing in the archway beyond which two great French windows looked out over the street. One beautiful, rounded arm was upraised, and its bejeweled hand was nervously clutching the edge of the heavy crimson curtain. It was no pose. She was clinging to the curtain for support.

It was still daylight. The setting sun still lit the street outside.

The room was lined from its polished floor to the ceiling with dark mahogany bookcases, which, with the crimson hangings, and the deep-toned Turkey carpet, helped to soften the light to a suggestion of evening.

The sound of a step in the hall beyond startled her. She clutched the curtain still more tightly. She knew that firm tread. The handle of the door turned. Instantly she yielded her hold upon the curtain. Her husband must witness no sign of her fear. The next moment a deep, familiar voice greeted her.

"I'm sorry if I kept you waiting, Mon. I----"

Hendrie broke off in astonishment. Just for a moment his eyes surveyed the wonderful picture she made. And, in that moment, Monica realized that her efforts had not been in vain. His eyes were drinking in her beauty, and she understood that never, in their brief married life, had she appealed to him more.

"Why, Mon," he cried. Then in a sudden burst of admiration. "You--you look just splendid." And after a pause. "Splendid!"

Monica smiled up at him.

"You haven't kept me waiting. I--I was anxious to see you at once, so I--I dressed early."

Hendrie had drawn nearer, as though about to embrace her. But her halting fashion of explanation checked him. All unconsciously he leaned against the edge of a table instead. It was as though something had warned him to--wait.

"I'm glad I didn't keep you waiting," he said, and something of the warmth had gone out of his tone. "Something--important?"

The woman was seized with a mad longing to flee from the room. The ordeal she was about to go through was almost more than she could bear.

"Yes--I'm afraid it is," she said, in a low, unsteady voice, while she turned away toward the window.

"Afraid?"

Monica turned again and looked up into his eyes. A sudden weakness left her knees shaking.

"Yes," she said, and stammered on. "I--I--hardly know where--to--begin."

Hendrie left the table and drew a step nearer.

"You're in some trouble, my Mon," he said kindly. "I can see it in your face. Tell me, dear."

His words had their effect. Monica's fears lessened, and something of her courage returned. Suddenly she threw up her head.

"No, no! You tell me, Alec!" she cried. "Tell me truly, as though you were answering your own soul, is there--is there a condition, a moment, a situation in life when it become wrong to keep a solemn vow given--to the dead? I hold that a vow to the dead is the most sacred thing in--life. Am I right--or wrong?"

The man's gray eyes expressed neither surprise nor curiosity. They were calmly considering, and in their calm they were painfully cold.

He shook his head.

"You are wrong," he said simply. "The most sacred thing in life is--Truth. When Truth demands, no vow to dead or living can bind."

Monica sighed.

"You are sure?"

"Sure. Quite sure."

The man was deliberate. As no answer was forthcoming, he went on--

"Come, Mon, tell me. Guess there's something behind all this. Well--I am here to listen."

The woman stirred. She clenched her hands. Then her answer came.