One end was occupied by shelves, filled with books; in one of the windows was a table, covered with papers and adorned with a type-writer, by means of which Iris carried on her correspondence.

For a moment the unworthy thought crossed his mind that he had been, perhaps, artfully lured on by a siren for his destruction.

Only for a moment, however, because she raised her face and met his gaze again, with eyes so frank and innocent, that he could not doubt them.

Besides, there was the clear outline of her face, so truthful and so honest.

The young man was an artist, and therefore believed in outline.