"Where are you, Guy?--this is Madeline Spencer," said she.
"I'm at the Collingwood, Madeline. Anything I can do for you?" was the
answer.
"Yes. Be here in an hour; I must see you."
"Important?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll be there at ten-thirty."
"You're always good!" said she softly.
"Not always," he laughed, "but I will be this time."
She dressed in feverish haste, yet with great care and attention to
effects. Her gown was a lustreless black silk, trimmed with gold and
made as plain as her modiste would--and the styles permitted. Her hair
was piled high, with an elongated twist; her dead-white complexion was
unmarred by powder or rouge, and beneath the transparent skin the blood
pulsed softly pink.
Her toilet finished, and passed upon in the mirror, she sent her maid on
a shopping expedition which would occupy her until noon, and even
hurried her off. She wanted no one about, not even Elise, when she made
her last play at Harleston.
Elise gone five minutes before the hour, she compelled herself to
outward tranquillity--while she strove for inward calm. And succeeding
wonderfully well--so well, indeed, that none would ever have suspected
the agitation seething under the cold placidity. Its only evidence was
in the gentle swing of her narrow foot, and the nervous play of her
slender fingers.
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