Etta talked
to Steinmetz--brightly, gayly, with a certain courage of a very high
order; for she was desperate, and she did not show it.
At last the evening came to an end. Maggie had sung two songs. Steinmetz
had performed on the piano with a marvellous touch. All had played their
parts with the brazen faces which Steinmetz, in his knowledge of many
nations, assigned to the Anglo-Saxon race before others.
At last Etta rose to go to bed, with a little sharp sigh of great
suspense. It was coming.
She went up to her room, bidding Maggie good-night in the passage. In a
mechanical way she allowed the deft-handed maid to array her in a
dressing gown--soft, silken, a dainty triumph in its way. Then, almost
impatiently, she sent the maid away when her hair was only half
released. She would brush it herself. She was tired. No, she wanted
nothing more.
She sat down by the fire, brush in hand. She could hardly breathe. It
was coming.
She heard Paul come to his dressing-room. She heard his deep, quiet
voice reply to some question of his valet's. Then the word "Good-night"
in the same quiet voice. The valet had gone. There was only the door now
between her and--what? Her fingers were at the throat of her
dressing-gown. The soft lace seemed to choke her.
Then Paul knocked at the door. It was coming. She opened her lips, but
at first could make no sound.
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