The piano-pounding continued and I waited for what

seemed an interminable time. It was growing dark and

a maid lighted the oil lamps. I took a book from the

table. It was The Life of Benvenuto Cellini and "Marian

Devereux" was written on the fly leaf, by unmistakably

the same hand that penned the apology for

Olivia's performances. I saw in the clear flowing lines

of the signature, in their lack of superfluity, her own

ease, grace and charm; and, in the deeper stroke with

which the x was crossed, I felt a challenge, a readiness

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to abide by consequences once her word was given.

Then my own inclination to think well of her angered

me. It was only a pretty bit of chirography, and I

dropped the book impatiently when I heard her step

on the threshold.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Glenarm.

But this is my busy hour."

"I shall not detain you long. I came,"-I hesitated,

not knowing why I had come.

She took a chair near the open door and bent forward

with an air of attention that was disquieting. She

wore black-perhaps to fit her the better into the house

of a somber Sisterhood. I seemed suddenly to remember

her from a time long gone, and the effort of memory

threw me off guard. Stoddard had said there were

several Olivia Armstrongs; there were certainly many

Marian Devereuxs. The silence grew intolerable; she

was waiting for me to speak, and I blurted: "I suppose you have come to take charge of the property."

"Do you?" she asked.

"And you came back with the executor to facilitate

matters. I'm glad to see that you lose no time."

"Oh!" she said lingeringly, as though she were finding

with difficulty the note in which I wished to pitch

the conversation. Her calmness was maddening.

"I suppose you thought it unwise to wait for the

bluebird when you had beguiled me into breaking a

promise, when I was trapped, defeated,-"

Her elbow on the arm of the chair, her hand resting

against her check, the light rippling goldenly in her

hair, her eyes bent upon me inquiringly, mournfully,-

mournfully, as I had seen them-where?-once before!

My heart leaped in that moment, with that thought.

"I remember now the first time!" I exclaimed, more

angry than I had ever been before in my life.

"That is quite remarkable," she said, and nodded her

head ironically.

"It was at Sherry's; you were with Pickering-you

dropped your fan and he picked it up, and you turned

toward me for a moment. You were in black that

night; it was the unhappiness in your face, in your

eyes, that made me remember."

I was intent upon the recollection, eager to fix and

establish it.

"You are quite right. It was at Sherry's. I was

wearing black then; many things made me unhappy

that night."




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