She sprang up and glided quickly into the house. She wanted to meet Pendleton in the brightness of the living-room rather than in the subdued light of the piazza. She wanted him to have the benefit of the first impression. She was quite aware of her exquisite loveliness--more alluring to-night than ever before. And of the sapphires--_his_ sapphires alone adorning her. She flung herself in an easy chair, crossed her silken knees with fetching abandon and caught up a magazine.
There was no ring at the bell, however--and she waited, impatiently. He should have rung--should be in the hall-way now--and yet Tompkins was not even come front! It was very strange!--Possibly he had gone around to the piazza, thinking that she might be there. She half turned--one hand on the chair arm, the other on her knee--and glanced toward the piazza door.
There came a step--and a smile of happiest greeting sprang to her face--to be chilled the next instant into frigidity.
"_You!_" she exclaimed indignantly.--"YOU!"
He was a trifle over the medium height and slender, with black hair just turning gray, and a face that women would call handsome, but that men would call effeminate because too flawless. The eyes had a peculiarly cynical expression about the corners, and the clean-shaven lips, while firm set and classic, were full and red.
"Yes, I!" he answered, and the voice was wondrously low and musical. "I am fortunate indeed to find you alone, Stephanie."
"I cannot say as much, Mr. Amherst!" she scorned.
He laughed lightly. "Time was when you were more than glad when I found you _alone_."
She glided swiftly toward the bell--but he was before her and blocked the way.
"Don't!" he said gently. "Consider--and don't. You may call--yes, you may even ring for the servants--and what, think you, will be the inference with _me_--me alone with you here--by appointment?"
"My servants never infer what it is impossible for them to believe!" she spurned. "They know I left you in disgust with myself and loathing for you--you unspeakable poltroon."
He put out his hand as though to stay her.
"You misunderstand, Stephanie dear," he said softly. "I've not come to reproach you, nor to find fault, nor to cast up the few unpleasant things in an exquisite past. I've come----" he took a step toward her--"I've come, dearest, to beseech you to forgive--to come back to me--to let me make amends." He held out his arms. "You're the only woman in the world for me--I know it now--I knew it as soon as you had left me. I've come clear from India to tell you--to take you away with me. Won't you come, dearest, won't you come?"