Her week was nearly at an end.

To-morrow would be the last day and she had gained nothing, it seemed, by all her care.
Harry was kind--oh, ever so much kinder than in the old days when they had been together--more considerate, more thoughtful.

But the skies of passion are stormily red, and so effulgent that one walks in gold.
Consideration, thoughtfulness--what were these pale things worth against one spurt of fire?
Besides, there was the ball to-night.

He would dance with _her_, would seek the dim open spaces of the lawns, the dark shadows of the great elms, with her--with Joan.
"I'll ring for you, Jenny," she repeated, as her maid stood doubtfully by the door.

"I am quite right." "Very well, madam." Stella Croyle's eyes were drawn when she was left alone to that cupboard in which her dressing-bag was stowed away.