Two years is a long time. Geoffrey had not forgotten Ellice, and her evil influence upon his life had not ceased to be operative; but he had ceased to feel the need of her personal presence. He had grown so accustomed to the wrong of her desertion, that this had become more necessary to him than she herself was. After a while we make friends with our grievances, and would be at a loss were they suddenly removed. An hour ago there was nothing that Geoffrey would have desired less than to hear again from his lost Ellice.

Nor was this all. Within the last three weeks a new element had come into Geoffrey's gloomy life. He had admitted it in a mood of self-contemptuous indolence; but since then it had worked upon him gently but powerfully, and was now on the way to make itself an unlooked-for resource and consolation. It had aroused a sentiment of gratitude in Geoffrey's heart, which, by-and-by, perhaps, would develop into something warmer and more tender. It had invested his future with a subdued but brightening light, so that he had doubtfully told himself that his latter days might be happier than those which were passed. Now, above all things, he wished for no change, no disturbance. Nevertheless, it was at this moment that the change and disturbance had come. He could feel, stealing subtly through his veins, a lawless and reckless heat which he remembered but too well, though it had long been a stranger to him. These written pages came from her, had been touched by her hand, and caressed by her breath. From them seemed to proceed an insidious mist, blinding his eyes to honour, and leading astray his judgment. How great and unaccountable was her power over him! It had not always been for evil—not so at first. No; at first it had been the purest and loftiest emotion of his heart. But now that it was become evil, it was not less strong: it was stronger.

Still, it might be resisted; it should, it must be resisted! Geoffrey pulled himself out of his reverie, and stood upright. After glancing confusedly first this way and then that, he went to the tall secretaire between the windows, and unlocked one of its inner drawers. Out of the drawer he took the black silk bow and the dried rosebud, which, at different times, had come to him from Ellice. Of late he had often thought of destroying these relics, but he had put off doing so, adducing many arguments to justify himself in his procrastination. Now, however, the thing must be done, if it were to be done at all. Geoffrey brought them and laid them upon the letter which he had placed upon the mantelpiece, after once more taking it from its envelope. After a pause, he folded the letter about them, and grasped the little bundle in his hand. The next moment he quickly replaced it on the mantelpiece and faced towards the door. Had not some one knocked?

The knock was repeated. He strode heavily and wrathfully to the door, and opened it There stood a woman, dressed in black, with a red rose in her bosom. She immediately threw back her gauze veil, but before she did so he had recognised her. Moreover, in spite of the utter surprise of her appearance at this place and hour, it seemed to him that he had been all along secretly expecting her. With a sort of dogged sullenness he made way for her, and she came in without hesitation, and with perfect grace.

'We are together again, Geoffrey,' she said, when he had closed the door, facing him as he advanced towards her. She took a hand of his in both hers, and added, 'Yes, you are real! You see, I would not wait. It was not worth while to risk anything more.'

'You are too late, by some weeks,' answered he, looking over her head at the wall.

'Why? Ah, you mean that—you don't care for me any more!' She let go his hand, and looked at him askance. Geoffrey, though he was thinking of far different things, noticed that she was paler than he had remembered her, except that her lips were scarlet as ever, and to the beauty of her face was superadded a depth of expression, distinct from its natural feminine mysteriousness. He suddenly fetched a deep sigh, like one who is oppressed, and then he walked to the mantelpiece, and rested his elbow on it, and his head on his hand.

'It is not necessary,' said Ellice, after a pause. 'I did not even expect it. I have done you too much harm—a great deal too much. But it is partly for that reason that I came. Whatever there is left of me belongs to you, if it can be of any use to you. I would like to die in some way that would make you forgive me.'

'Forgiveness is a word which children use,' replied he; 'it is never anything more than a word. The only thing I could not forgive you is, that you have come in my way again.'

A light sparkled in Ellice's eyes, and she smiled a very little. For, although the superficial significance of the words was repellent enough, she could discern the essential, reluctant flattery underlying them. It was not because she was odious to Geoffrey that he wished her away; but because she was too much the contrary. She was safe, therefore.

'Let us talk together this once,' she said, 'and afterwards, if you like, you need never see me again. May I sit down here with you beside me? How happy we might have been!'

'Do you wish me to remember that you are a married woman?' he demanded sullenly. 'You seem to think that everything is a game and a plaything. Can you alter or take back what you have been doing these last three years? What have you done with your husband?'

'Do you remember a thing you said two years ago, Geoffrey, when I asked you to be my friend? Well, there need be no secret now. I mean never to see Mr. Amidon again. I don't care what society says or thinks. He has made it impossible for me to live with him. I don't blame him, for he never could have had much satisfaction out of me, poor creature. He knew from the beginning that I cared nothing for him; it was merely an arrangement on account of property, and I—I consented more for my father's sake than——'

'You need not take the trouble to say that to me!' interrupted Geoffrey with a harsh laugh.

'No; I will tell you the whole truth,' she said, leaning back in her chair and surveying him attentively. 'I have always told you that, so far as I knew it; but now, for the first time, I think I know it all. I thought I needed something more than your love, but it was a mistake. I had not had enough of it to know what it could be—that is all. Mr. Amidon has at least taught me that; he has taught me by showing me all that it is not. I used to think there were so many pleasant things in the world, that no one pleasure—not even the pleasure of your love—could make up for the loss of the others. But I have found that no pleasure can be really enjoyed except through love; one might as well save money for dresses by going without food. What is the use of fine clothes if you are dead?'

'Do you intend to divorce your husband?'

Ellice looked down for a moment at her hands, then glanced up with a smile and nodded.

'Does he know of it?'

'No. He does not know where I am at this moment. I left him suddenly yesterday in Paris. But he cannot help himself; he has no defence.'

'Well, and after you have got your divorce—what then?'

Ellice was looking straight at Geoffrey when he asked this question, and for all answer she gave him another of her strange, unexpected smiles.

Geoffrey stood up; this scarcely disguised avowal that she believed her power over him to be undiminished so far defeated itself as to give him strength for at least temporary resistance. He took her letter with its enfolded contents off the mantelpiece.

'Two years have made more difference with me than they seem to have made with you,' he said. 'I don't pretend to be as fresh-hearted and as ready to begin life over again now as I was then, and perhaps I can give you the friendly counsel to-day which you expected of me that afternoon at Lady Feuilleton's. You will make a great mistake, in my opinion, in leaving your husband. He can be of more use to you than anybody else can. The longer you live the more of that sort of help you will need. You will find it more inconvenient to give up the world than it was to give up me. My advice is that you take the next train back to Paris.'

'I will go if you send me,' replied Ellice, rising with an unhurried movement, and standing in slender gracefulness before him. 'If that advice comes from your heart, Geoffrey, I will do even that for you, if it will make you happier. But—will you be happier? Am I grown ugly and hateful to you? Look at me, Geoffrey! You used to think my lips were beautiful.'

'Look at this!' returned he, breaking out into fierceness. He unfolded the letter, and showed her the black bow and the dried rosebud. 'These came from you. I have kept them till now, but at the moment you came in I was going to burn them, and let that part of my life be annihilated with them; for I had begun a new life, which they dishonoured. Why do you come now? You promised to come before that flower faded. Did you think it was immortal?'

'You have kept it all this time,' said Ellice softly, drawing a deep breath. 'Then, perhaps, it may not be too late to make it bloom again. Shall we try, Geoffrey?'

His eyes and face glowed; he felt himself drawn towards her as by the strong current of a river; their hands met, when, as if by some sudden impulse independent of his own will, he uttered the words:

'We cannot; I am going to be married.'

At first it seemed as if this announcement had produced no effect whatever upon Ellice. She continued to clasp Geoffrey's hands, and her gaze was untroubled. But presently she began slowly to grow pale, until her whole face was quite white, while her eyes darkened until they appeared black. Her lips fell apart a little, and it was with difficulty that she moved them to say: 'You—I did not hear. What was it?'

Geoffrey did not speak again. It was with a conscious effort that he held himself upright, and looked at her. He wished this were over. Ellice now slipped her hands from his and drew them back against her shoulders, as if they had touched something unwholesome; but all the while she kept questioning him with a gaze half incredulous, half wistful. At last, however, and all at once, the full significance of what he had told her seemed to leap into her mind, charging her features with a vivid and sinister expression, the like of which Geoffrey had never seen in her before. It ended in her laughing somewhat shrilly, and sitting down again in her chair. She felt nervously for her handkerchief, and having got it, pressed it several times to her mouth.

'You took me quite by surprise,' she began, in a thin voice. 'You are really going to be married! How dramatically you brought it out! Who—may I ask to whom?'

'No name that you have ever heard,' said Geoffrey stolidly.

'And you have been engaged to her long? You love her passionately, of course?'

'We have been engaged about three weeks. She deserves the best love——'

'Yes—I didn't mean to pry into your tender affairs! Geoffrey, have you kissed her—often, I mean?'

'Yes, a hundred times,' he answered, between his teeth.

Ellice gave an involuntary shudder, and made a gesture as if to shut out what he had said from her ears. The emotion brought the blood surging and tingling back to her face. She turned her head aside and remained for some time with her gaze fixed upon the wall. Geoffrey ventured to make no sign, for he had tried his resolution to the uttermost, and knew too well where another struggle would leave him. Yet, at heart, perhaps, he grudged himself a victory so much less sweet than defeat would have been. At that moment Ellice was for him the only woman in the world. He was ready to fall at her feet. He felt as if all the outrage had been on his side and all the suffering on hers.

At last she got up, outwardly quiet, save for the deep flush in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes, which travelled over Geoffrey occasionally as she spoke, but never rested steadily upon him. 'You have made me feel ashamed of myself,' she said. 'I think you should have told me this news at first. No—I take that back. I broke in upon you uninvited and—but it was because I thought—I did not think——You must believe that I am not so unwomanly as to have done it if I had known.' She paused, buttoning and unbuttoning her glove mechanically, her lips moving silently. Finally she looked up and said in a fresher tone: 'May I ask you one favour?'

Geoffrey moved his head in silent assent.

'I shall go away—I shall go back to-morrow evening,' she went on. 'You see I am wise enough to take your advice now. But I want very much to see—this lady before I go. You need not be afraid; I should say nothing that could pain her; but you can understand why I should like to see her. I suppose I may tell you—for you must know it already—that she is the only woman in the world whom I can feel an interest in seeing. When I picture you to myself hereafter, I want to be able to picture her too. Will you bring her to see me to-morrow, before I go? Tell her that I am an old—acquaintance of yours; a married woman, who feels an interest in what concerns your happiness. Will you come with her?'

'Oh, Ellice,' said he, in a broken voice, 'I will come with her—or, if you say so, I will come without her!'

She seemed to hesitate for an instant, drawing in her breath, and sending him one swift and penetrating glance. But the next instant she answered quite composedly, and as if she had not understood the significance of his avowal. 'Oh, no, come with her; I should like to see her! Thank you; now I will go; good-bye till to-morrow!' And before he could take her hand in farewell, or find words to speak, she had retreated to the door, opened it, and passed out.

It was dark when she departed. Geoffrey lit no lamp; but after locking his door, he sat for many hours with his head on his hands; and everywhere, standing forth against the gloom, he saw her slender supple figure, her fascinating wayward face: the changes of her voice murmured in his ears; and the desire of her ruled his heart and mind.

It was not with the feelings of a triumphant lover, proud to exhibit his mistress to envious eyes, that Geoffrey Herne presented himself, with the girl he was to marry, at Ellice's apartments the next day. Not that Gertrude Hamilton was in any respect a bride to be ashamed of. She was handsome, wholesome, and serene; full of kindliness and common sense; pure in thought and upright in deed. She had given her whole honest love to Geoffrey, moreover; and having done so, she had as little thought of changing as the moon has of ceasing to be the earth's satellite. So short a time ago as yesterday forenoon, Geoffrey had seen his way to a life of sober happiness with her; but now he could only think, 'She is not Ellice'; and he shunned to meet her quiet, confident look, and could not respond frankly to her conversational advances. He felt himself a cheat; and inwardly kept repeating to himself the ominous question: 'How will it end? How will it end?'

Mrs. Amidon received her guests with a charm of cordiality that at once produced a favourable impression upon Gertrude. She was dressed in a flowing tea-gown of some oriental stuff which became her especially well; there was colour in her cheeks, and her manner varied between languor and what seemed restrained excitement; but a certain rare feminine sweetness pervaded all. On the table by her side was a silver salver, holding a decanter of wine and three glasses. These glasses, which had already been filled to the brim with wine, were of Venetian design, each one of a pattern different from the others. The room was in half light and furnished sumptuously.

Ellice addressed almost all her questions and remarks to Gertrude; never meeting the latter's eyes, but occasionally glancing at her with great keenness. To Geoffrey she scarcely spoke; and when he addressed her, she would reply to him, as it were, through Gertrude. Geoffrey had noticed that she had avoided shaking hands with either of them at meeting; and, as he sat observing her, the fantasy now and then seized him that she was not a tangible human being of flesh and blood, but a beautiful wraith. There was a refinement and a sensitiveness in her gesture and aspect as of one who could scarcely have part in the vain, self-seeking world: and yet what an odd commentary upon this appearance her actual life (as far as one could know it) had been!

After a while she said, rising, and speaking with more vivacity than she had shown before: 'Now I am going to ask you both to take a glass of wine with me.'

Gertrude thanked her, but said she seldom took wine, unless for medicinal purposes.

'Oh, but let me beg of you to make an exception this time,' returned Ellice, with singular earnestness. 'I have set my heart—yes, my heart, upon your drinking with me. Do not refuse me. I shall never have the opportunity of asking another favour of you.' She took up the salver as she spoke, and held it towards Gertrude, with the three glasses upon it. 'Choose one,' she said. 'I am superstitious. I cannot let you off from this. Take whichever you like.'

'Certainly, if it will oblige you,' said Gertrude, smiling. 'I suppose they are all the same wine? I will take this.' And she took the slenderest of the three glasses.

'The wine is the same,' observed Ellice, 'but the glasses sometimes make a difference in the taste. Well, you have chosen; now, Geoffrey, it lies between you and me.'

Her hands trembled a little as she presented the salver to him, so that the glasses jingled, and some of the wine was spilt. 'Quick!' she said in a whisper; and he took the glass with the curved brim and the snaky stem. As she set down the salver her hand was steady again, and when she raised the remaining glass between her fingers not a drop was spilt.

'You remember the last time we drank together, Geoffrey?' she said, looking directly at him now for the first time. 'I shall never drink wine in my life after this. I am glad you and Gertrude have chosen as you have done. It is better—much better. You had your free choice, and left this for me. I drink to your health, my friends.'

She drank her glass out, and set it down. The others followed her example.

'It is very good wine, I'm sure,' remarked Gertrude.

'You will get no harm from it,' replied Ellice, tremulously and smiling; 'nor will you, Geoffrey. And it will be good for me, too. You will——' she began to tremble so violently that she could not stand, and sank down in a chair. 'You will think—kindly of me?' she went on in a scarcely audible voice. A strange alteration was rapidly creeping over her features. Her lips quivered, her eyes dilated, and there was a choking in her throat. Geoffrey, who, for the last few moments, had kept his eyes fixed upon her searchingly, suddenly flung himself down on his knees beside her with a hollow cry of anguish.

'Ellice! you have poisoned yourself,' he cried with thick utterance. 'Could you not have forgiven me enough to let me go too?'

'You—had your—chance; it was death—to one or other of us three,' she answered with difficulty. 'Fate chose me. Oh! do not trouble me now; I am content. Of what use have I ever been in the world? She is better for you.'

'What is the matter? Can I be of any help?' enquired Gertrude, in concern and perplexity.

For a minute Geoffrey made no reply. Then he rose stiffly, kissed the dead woman's lips, and turning away from her, but not towards Gertrude, answered heavily, 'None!'