The so-called artistic temperament is compounded of great strength and great weakness; its virtues are whiter than those of ordinary people and its vices blacker.  For such a personality Mrs. Sin embodied the idea of secret pleasure.  Her bold good looks repelled Rita, but the knowledge in her dark eyes was alluring.

“I arrange for you for Saturday night,” she said.  “Cy Kilfane is coming with Mollie, and you bring—­”

“Oh,” replied Rita hesitatingly, “I am sorry you have gone to so much trouble.”

“No trouble, my dear,” Mrs. Sin assured her.  “Just a little matter of business, and you can pay the bill when it suits you.”

“I am frightfully excited!” cried Mollie Gretna.  “It is so nice of you to have asked me to join your party.  Of course Cy goes practically every week, but I have always wanted another girl to go with.  Oh, I shall be in a perfectly delicious panic when I find myself all among funny Chinamen and things!  I think there is something so magnificently wicked-looking about a pigtail—­and the very name of Limehouse thrills me to the soul!”

That fixity of purpose which had enabled Rita to avoid the cunning snares set for her feet and to snatch triumph from the very cauldron of shame without burning her fingers availed her not at all in dealing with Mrs. Sin.  The image of Monte receded before this appeal to the secret pleasure-loving woman, of insatiable curiosity, primitive and unmoral, who dwells, according to a modern cynic philosopher, within every daughter of Eve touched by the fire of genius.

She accepted the arrangement for Saturday, and before her visitors had left the dressing-room her mind was busy with plausible deceits to cover the sojourn in Chinatown.  Something of Mollie Gretna’s foolish enthusiasm had communicated itself to Rita.

Later in the evening Sir Lucien called, and on hearing of the scheme grew silent.  Rita glancing at his reflection in the mirror, detected a black and angry look upon his face.  She turned to him.

“Why, Lucy,” she said, “don’t you want me to go?”

He smiled in his sardonic fashion.

“Your wishes are mine, Rita,” he replied.

She was watching him closely.

“But you don’t seem keen,” she persisted.  “Are you angry with me?”

“Angry?”

“We are still friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course.  Do you doubt my friendship?”

Rita’s maid came in to assist her in changing for the third act, and Pyne went out of the room.  But, in spite of his assurances, Rita could not forget that fierce, almost savage expression which had appeared upon his face when she had told him of Mrs. Sin’s visit.

Later she taxed him on the point, but he suffered her inquiry with imperturbable sangfroid, and she found herself no wiser respecting the cause of his annoyance.  Painful twinges of conscience came during the ensuing days, when she found herself in her fiance’s company, but she never once seriously contemplated dropping the acquaintance of Mrs. Sin.