“I have done nothing, except to write and say that I needed the money,—­which you promised to return weeks ago, or I couldn’t possibly have spared it,” protested a voice which Hugh had heard in dreams three nights out of every six, in as many years.

“Well, if you write any more letters, we shall burn them unread, so it is no use to trouble us; and we will pay when we choose.”

With the last words, the other voice died into distance.  Mademoiselle had said what she came to say, and was retreating with dignity down the corridor.

Now the figure of a slender woman was silhouetted in the doorway.  Hugh heard a sigh, and saw a hand that glimmered white in the dusk against the dark paper on the wall, as it groped for the button of the electric light.  Then, suddenly the room was filled with a white radiance, and she stood in the midst of it, young and beautiful, the woman he had loved for seven years.

Putting Rosemary away he sprang up, and her eyes, dazzled at first by the sudden flood of light, opened wide in startled recognition.  “Hugh—­Hugh Egerton!” she stammered, whispering as one whispers in a dream.

She was pale as a lily, but the whiteness of her face was like light, shining from within; and there was a light in her great eyes, too, such as had never shone for Hugh on sea or land.  Once, a long time ago, he had hoped that she cared, or would come to care.  But she had chosen another man, and Hugh had gone away; that had been the end.  Yet now—­what stars her eyes were!  One might almost think that she had not forgotten; that sometimes she had wished for him, that she was glad to see him now.

“Lady Clifford,” he stammered.  “I—­will you forgive my being here—­my frightening you like this?”

The brightness died out of her face.  “Lady Clifford!” she echoed.  “Don’t call me that, unless—­I’m to call you Mr. Egerton?  And besides, I’m only Madame Clifford here.  It is better; the other would seem like ostentation in a woman who works.”

“Evelyn,” he said.  “Thank you for letting it be Evelyn.”  Then, his voice breaking a little, “Oh, say you’re a tiny bit glad to see me, just a tiny bit glad.”

She did not answer in words; but her eyes spoke, as she held out both hands.

[Illustration:  He crushed them in his, then bent his head and kissed them.  Page 102.

—­Rosemary.]

He crushed them in his, then bent his head and kissed them; first the girlish right hand, then the left.  But she saw his face contract as he caught the gleam of her wedding ring.  As he looked up, their eyes met again, and each knew what was in the other’s mind.

“Angel, dearest,” said Rosemary, “do tell the fairy father you’re glad to see him.”

Evelyn started.  “Why do you call him that?”

“Because he said he was a fairy, and would have to vanish soon.  But you’ll beg him not to, won’t you?”