Chapter 3

When Lord Arthur woke it was twelve o'clock, and the midday sun was
streaming through the ivory-silk curtains of his room. He got up
and looked out of the window. A dim haze of heat was hanging over
the great city, and the roofs of the houses were like dull silver.
In the flickering green of the square below some children were
flitting about like white butterflies, and the pavement was crowded
with people on their way to the Park. Never had life seemed
lovelier to him, never had the things of evil seemed more remote.

Then his valet brought him a cup of chocolate on a tray. After he
had drunk it, he drew aside a heavy portiere of peach-coloured
plush, and passed into the bathroom. The light stole softly from
above, through thin slabs of transparent onyx, and the water in the
marble tank glimmered like a moonstone. He plunged hastily in, till
the cool ripples touched throat and hair, and then dipped his head
right under, as though he would have wiped away the stain of some
shameful memory. When he stepped out he felt almost at peace. The
exquisite physical conditions of the moment had dominated him, as
indeed often happens in the case of very finely-wrought natures, for
the senses, like fire, can purify as well as destroy.

After breakfast, he flung himself down on a divan, and lit a
cigarette. On the mantel-shelf, framed in dainty old brocade, stood
a large photograph of Sybil Merton, as he had seen her first at Lady
Noel's ball. The small, exquisitely-shaped head drooped slightly to
one side, as though the thin, reed-like throat could hardly bear the
burden of so much beauty; the lips were slightly parted, and seemed
made for sweet music; and all the tender purity of girlhood looked
out in wonder from the dreaming eyes. With her soft, clinging dress
of crepe-de-chine, and her large leaf-shaped fan, she looked like
one of those delicate little figures men find in the olive-woods
near Tanagra; and there was a touch of Greek grace in her pose and
attitude. Yet she was not petite. She was simply perfectly
proportioned--a rare thing in an age when so many women are either
over life-size or insignificant.

Now as Lord Arthur looked at her, he was filled with the terrible
pity that is born of love. He felt that to marry her, with the doom
of murder hanging over his head, would be a betrayal like that of
Judas, a sin worse than any the Borgia had ever dreamed of. What
happiness could there be for them, when at any moment he might be
called upon to carry out the awful prophecy written in his hand?
What manner of life would be theirs while Fate still held this
fearful fortune in the scales? The marriage must be postponed, at
all costs. Of this he was quite resolved. Ardently though he loved
the