At the top of the fourth flight of steps, Pierre found himself facing

a door that stood ajar. Beyond that door was Joan and he knew not what

experience of discovery, of explanation, of punishment. What he had

suffered since the night of his cruelty would be nothing to what he

might have to suffer now at the hands of the woman he had loved and

hurt. That she was incredibly changed he knew, what had happened to

change her he did not know. That she had suffered greatly was certain.

One could not look at the face of Jane West, even under its disguise

of paint and pencil, without a sharp realization of profound and

embittering experience. And, just as certainly, she had gone far ahead

of her husband in learning, in a certain sort of mental and social

development. Pierre was filled with doubt and with dread, with an

almost unbearable self-depreciation. And at the same time he was

filled with a nameless fear of what Joan might herself have become.

He stood with his hand on the knob of that half-opened door, bent his

head, and drew some deep, uneven breaths. He thought of Holliwell as

though the man were standing beside him. He stepped in quietly, shut

the door, and walked without hesitation down the passageway into the

little, sunny sitting-room. There, before the crackling, open fire,

sat Prosper Gael.

Prosper, it seemed, was alone in the small, silent place. He was

sitting on the middle of his spine, as usual, with his long, thin legs

stretched out before him and a veil of cigarette smoke before his

eyes. He turned his head idly, expecting, no doubt, to see the nurse.

Pierre, white and grim, stood looking down at him.

The older man recognized him at once, but he did not change his

position by a muscle, merely lounged there, his head against the side

of the cushioned chair, the brilliant, surprised gaze changing slowly

to amused contempt. His cigarette hung between the long fingers of one

hand, its blue spiral of smoke rising tranquilly into a bar of

sunshine from the window.

"The doctor told me to come up," said Pierre gravely. He was aware of

the insult of this stranger's attitude, but he was too deeply stirred,

too deeply suspenseful, to be irritated by it. He seemed to be moving

in some rare, disconnected atmosphere. "I have his permission to

see--to see Miss West, if she is willing to see me."

Prosper flicked off an ash with his little finger. "And you believe

that she is willing to see you, Pierre Landis?" he asked slowly.




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