With a woman's withering contempt for her own art displayed in another woman, she thought how she herself could have touched him with the peace that the majesty of their woodland aisles--so unlike this pillared sham--had taught her own passionate heart, had she but dared.

Mingling with this imperfect theology, she felt she could have proved to him also that a brunette and a woman of her experience was better than an immature blonde.

She began to loathe herself for coming hither, and dreaded to meet his face.

Here a sudden thought struck her.

What if he had not come here?
What if she had been mistaken?
What if her rash interpretation of his absence from the wood that night was simple madness?
What if he should return--if he had already returned?
She rose to her feet, whitening yet joyful with the thought.