'you have not given up your pleasant holiday in Italy on my account?'
'I shall go back with you to England, Agnes. That will be holiday

enough for me.'
She took his hand in an irrepressible outburst of gratitude.

'How good you are to me!' she murmured tenderly. 'What should I have
done in the troubles that have come to me, without your sympathy?

I can't tell you, Henry, how I feel your kindness.'
She tried impulsively to lift his hand to her lips. He gently

stopped her. 'Agnes,' he said, 'are you beginning to understand
how truly I love you?'

That simple question found its own way to her heart. She owned
the whole truth, without saying a word. She looked at him--

and then looked away again.
He drew her nearer to him. 'My own darling!' he whispered--

and kissed her. Softly and tremulously, the sweet lips lingered,
and touched his lips in return. Then her head drooped.

She put her arms round his neck, and hid her face on his bosom.
They spoke no more.

The charmed silence had lasted but a little while, when it was
mercilessly broken by a knock at the door.

Agnes started to her feet. She placed herself at the piano;
the instrument being opposite to the door, it was impossible,

when she seated herself on the music-stool, for any person
entering the room to see her face. Henry called out irritably,

'Come in.'
The door was not opened. The person on the other side of it asked

a strange question.
'Is Mr. Henry Westwick alone?'

Agnes instantly recognised the voice of the Countess. She hurried
to a second door, which communicated with one of the bedrooms.

'Don't let her come near me!' she whispered nervously. 'Good night,
Henry! good night!'

If Henry could, by an effort of will, have transported the Countess
to the uttermost ends of the earth, he would have made the effort

without remorse. As it was, he only repeated, more irritably than ever,
'Come in!'

She entered the room slowly with her everlastingmanuscript in her hand.
Her step was unsteady; a dark flush appeared on her face, in place

of its customary pallor; her eyes were bloodshot and widely dilated.
In approaching Henry, she showed a strange incapability of calculating

her distances--she struck against the table near which he happened
to be sitting. When she spoke, her articulation was confused, and her

pronunciation of some of the longer words was hardly intelligible.
Most men would have suspected her of being under the influence of some

intoxicating liquor. Henry took a truer view--he said, as he placed
a chair for her, 'Countess, I am afraid you have been working too hard:

you look as if you wanted rest.'
She put her hand to her head. 'My invention has gone,' she said.

'I can't write my fourth act. It's all a blank--all a blank!'
Henry advised her to wait till the next day. 'Go to bed,' he suggested;

and try to sleep.'
She waved her hand impatiently. 'I must finish the play,'

she answered. 'I only want a hint from you. You must know
something about plays. Your brother has got a theatre.

You must often have heard him talk about fourth and fifth acts--
you must have seen rehearsals, and all the rest of it.'

She abruptlythrust the manuscript into Henry's hand. 'I can't read
it to you,' she said; 'I feel giddy when I look at my own writing.

Just run your eye over it, there's a good fellow--and give me
a hint.'

Henry glanced at the manuscript. He happened to look at the list
of the persons of the drama. As he read the list he started and turned

abruptly to the Countess, intending to ask her for some explanation.
The words were suspended on his lips. It was but too plainly useless

to speak to her. Her head lay back on the rail of the chair.
She seemed to be half asleep already. The flush on her face

had deepened: she looked like a woman who was in danger of having
a fit.

He rang the bell, and directed the man who answered it to send
one of the chambermaids upstairs. His voice seemed to partially

rouse the Countess; she opened her eyes in a slow drowsy way.
'Have you read it?' she asked.

It was necessary as a mere act of humanity to humour her.
'I will read it willingly,' said Henry, 'if you will go upstairs

to bed. You shall hear what I think of it to-morrow morning.
Our heads will be clearer, we shall be better able to make the fourth

act in the morning.'
The chambermaid came in while he was speaking. 'I am afraid

the lady is ill,' Henry whispered. 'Take her up to her room.'
The woman looked at the Countess and whispered back, 'Shall we send

for a doctor, sir?'
Henry advised taking her upstairs first, and then asking

the manager's opinion. There was great difficulty in persuading
her to rise, and accept the support of the chambermaid's arm.

It was only by reiterated promises to read the play that night,
and to make the fourth act in the morning, that Henry prevailed on

the Countess to return to her room.
Left to himself, he began to feel a certain languid curiosity

in relation to the manuscript. He looked over the pages, reading a
line here and a line there. Suddenly he changed colour as he read--

and looked up from the manuscript like a man bewildered.
'Good God! what does this mean?' he said to himself.

His eyes turned nervously to the door by which Agnes had left him.
She might return to the drawing-room, she might want to see what

the Countess had written. He looked back again at the passage
which had startled him--considered with himself for a moment--

and, snatching up the unfinished play, suddenly and softly left
the room.

CHAPTER XXVI
Entering his own room on the upper floor, Henry placed the

manuscript on his table, open at the first leaf. His nerves were
unquestionably shaken; his hand trembled as he turned the pages,

he started at chance noises on the staircase of the hotel.
The scenario, or outline, of the Countess's play began with no

formal prefatory phrases. She presented herself and her work
with the easy familiarity of an old friend.

'Allow me, dear Mr. Francis Westwick, to introduce to you the persons
in my proposed Play. Behold them, arranged symmetrically in a line.

'My Lord. The Baron. The Courier. The Doctor. The Countess.
'I don't trouble myself, you see, to invest fictitious family names.

My characters are sufficientlydistinguished by their social titles,
and by the strikingcontrast which they present one with another.

The First Act opens--
'No! Before I open the First Act, I must announce, injustice to myself,

that this Play is entirely the work of my own invention. I scorn
to borrow from actual events; and, what is more extraordinary still,

I have not stolen one of my ideas from the Modern French drama.
As the manager of an English theatre, you will naturally refuse to

believe this. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters--except the opening
of my first act.

'We are at Homburg, in the famous Salon d'Or, at the height of the season.
The Countess (exquisitely dressed) is seated at the green table.

Strangers of all nations are standing behind the players, venturing
their money or only looking on. My Lord is among the strangers.

He is struck by the Countess's personal appearance, in which beauties
and defects are fantastically mingled in the most attractive manner.

He watches the Countess's game, and places his money where he sees
her deposit her own little stake. She looks round at him, and says,

"Don't trust to my colour; I have been unlucky the whole evening.
Place your stake on the other colour, and you may have a chance