# Grey Face/Chapter 17
### CHAPTER XVII
#### THE WHITE PAVILION

DOUGLAS CAREY stepped out of the elevator and looked around him with a surprise which he was quite unable to conceal. Madame Sabinov laughed softly.
"What astonishes you?" she asked; "my white room?"
Carey turned to her, and his astonishment increased. Where he had thought to find a door there was nothing but a plain panel of the same unfamiliar silky white wood in which the apartment was carried out. Against it the black-sheathed figure of Madame Sabinov resembled an ebony statue.
She had removed her hat and a sort of cape which had formed part of her costume. The lithe black figure, the youthful, taunting beauty of her face, crowned with snowy hair, set his imagination on fire. Then his sense of humour awoke. He likened that charming head to a large powder-puff.
"You are smiling," she said.
"Yes," he replied. "You are very wonderful, and so is your room."
Indeed, it was worthy of his description. It was square, and panelled with white wood of a kind which Carey had never met with before. Its carved ceiling was dome-shaped, and the floor was completely covered with a plain golden carpet which possessed a sheen like that of human hair. There were some delicate etchings, gold-framed, some curious gilt furniture of very slender design, books and flowers, and a large antique harp.
These things, however, had not occasioned his astonishment. It had been due to the fact that the room possessed neither doors nor windows, but nevertheless was warmly illuminated as if by reflected sunlight.
Madame Sabinov seated herself in a long rest chair and lighted a cigarette, for she smoked almost continuously.
"You think this"—she waved her white hand—"an affectation, I suppose."
Carey, seated near her, glanced around him with a certain embarrassment; but before he had time to reply:
"Well, so it is," she added, "and nearly every room in the house is equally preposterous, although some are quite beautiful."
"This room is beautiful," said Carey hastily, "but most unusual."
"Yes," Madame Sabinov's eyes turned slowly to right and left, languidly surveying the apartment. "A freak of the man who had this great big house reconstructed from cellar to roof."
"By whom was this done?" Carey asked.
"By M. de Trepniak," Madame replied simply. "This house was formerly his. He was good enough to make me a present of it. Please smoke. I know you don't like these amber things, but there are some perfectly good Virginians in the box at your elbow."
Carey's former embarrassment returned tenfold. He took a cigarette and lighted it, whilst Madame watched him through half-lowered lashes. He was not quite at one with his conscience respecting the motive which had prompted him to accept her invitation. Mrs. Lewisham had early dismissed him in favour of the Guardsman, and, having escorted Madame Sabinov to her house:
"Are you in a hurry, or will you stay and talk to me for a while?" she had said.
Now, here he sat in this curious white saloon. He was really anxious to learn if this woman had left the little ebony Buddha upon his table; but he could have asked her outright at Trepniak's. She was very alluring, very mysterious, and unless he had grossly misunderstood her, was living under the protection of the man whose home they had recently left.
He recognized that he had been silent too long, and, turning to Madame, he found the gaze of her sombre eyes set fixedly upon him. There was something in those long eyes which reminded him of night, of Eastern night; her lips were smiling, though.
"I had not realized that you were old friends," he said, rather awkwardly.
"No?" she murmured, continuing to watch him. "Well, we are not such very old friends. We met in Paris a year ago, and"—she shrugged her shoulders—"drifted together. Do I shock you just a little bit?"
"Not at all. Why should I be shocked?"
"Oh, I don't know," she answered, "there are so many Registrars in the world, you see. One friend of mine has been married five times—by which I mean that she has been divorced four times. I have been married once, only because"—she paused slightly—"he wished it. Yet my friend is received everywhere, and I am not. But I have no country of my own, so why should I conform to the customs of those I visit? And I have no religion. I was never taught one. So why should I pretend to respect what I cannot understand?"
She shrugged her shoulders again.
"No," Carey replied, and found himself wondering about her nationality as others had done before him.
Her English was perfect, far better than that spoken by Trepniak, but at times, although it was elusive, he had detected a faint and unfamiliar accent, an oddness of intonation. She was very elegant and possessed of a most unusual personality.
A tiny warning voice spoke to him. Already, someone, that powerful hidden enemy whom in vain he had sought to unmask, had linked their names. The rumour had reached Jasmine's ears. Already, though guiltless, he had known sorrow because of this woman.
A sweet-toned bell, apparently in some neighbouring room, struck the hour of six. He determined to take his leave. Madame Sabinov was toying with a little ornament which she held in her hand; and fascinated by the movements of the slender white fingers, Carey suddenly bethought him of the motive, or what he believed to be the motive, of his visit.
He raised his eyes, meeting her glance again, for she had never ceased to watch him, and he became aware of a sudden distrust of himself.
His ideas changed abruptly, unaccountably. How beautiful she was. He became possessed of an insane desire to make love to her, and she, as if reading his glance aright, imparted to her slow smile such a quality of allurement that it became an invitation.
"Must you leave me?" she said very softly.
At that, his self-possession deserted him. He was carried out of himself by such a great surge of longing as he had never known even in his dreams of Jasmine. He found himself kneeling upon the golden carpet beside her, his lips pressed passionately to her hand, his arm about her waist.
"Not if you tell me to stay, Poppaea," he said, brokenly.
Why he thus addressed her, he knew no more than he knew how this sudden desire had overpowered him, drugged him, made him drunk with longing. He could not remember where he had heard her name. He only knew that some part of his nature which had slept so soundly as to have played no role in his life had sprung up like a devouring flame in answer to that voluptuous smile.
He was mad for her kisses, for the clasp of her slender hands. He would have bought her love with death and counted the price a light one.
As if answering to that fire within him, she bent forward, lightly throwing her arm around his shoulders. He sought to reach her lips but she drew back, shaking her head.
"This is madness," she whispered.
But Carey grasped her hand again, which now she had clenched, and began to unlock the delicate fingers, pouring out wild, strange words of love, unfamiliar upon his tongue, unfamiliar in his own ears. Automatically, perhaps unconsciously, she was clutching a little jade amulet, but at last her fingers relaxed and it dropped upon the carpet.
As it fell, Madame Sabinov's eyes, which had remained half veiled by their long lashes, opened slowly, widely. Their slumbrous, taunting expression left them. They became glittering, curiously speckled with gold, like the eyes of an awakening animal. This new glance chilled the man who knelt at her feet.
She withdrew her hand from his grasp, not violently, but deliberately, purposefully, watching him now in a different way. This was another woman. Surely those firm lips were incapable of wanton smiles. Carey drew back and then stood up. Passion had swept over him like a tidal wave. Now like a tidal wave it receded, leaving him cold, abashed, amazed. He clenched his fists convulsively. What madness had possessed him? He uttered a groan like that of a soul condemned.
Madame Sabinov rose from her long chair and con- fronted him. Awhile she watched him almost wildly, searching his face, which had grown pale. Then she looked about the saloon as if she found her surroundings utterly unfamiliar. Carey did not speak. Finally her gaze came back to him again, and at last she spoke. The words were simple enough, yet they chilled her hearer uncannily, as the touch of something strange.
"How long have we been here?" she whispered.
For a moment he could not answer. Then:
"Forgive me," he said, his voice unsteady for he was still shaken by the storm which had swept over him, "but I don't think I understand."
The expression in Madame Sabinov's beautiful eyes grew even more strange, wilder.
"Please answer me," she implored. "Answer me! How long have we been here?"