against his shoulder, was still.

Over her head he looked at the fire, with his free hand gently caressing
her arm. He did not want to say any more. What he wanted was to get away,
slide out of range of her eyes and her questions. It was his own fault
that the interview had developed in a manner undesired and unintended,
but that did not make him any the less anxious to end it. Presently she
lifted her head and drew back from him. Stealing a look at her, he saw
she was pale and that her eyes were wet. She put her fingers on them,
pressing on the lids, her lips set close, her breast shaken.

In dread of another emotional outburst he looked at his watch and said in
a brisk, matter-of-fact tone,

"Look here, young woman, this is awfully jolly, but I don't want to be
the means of making trouble for you at the Albion. Won't you be late?"

She started and came to life, throwing a bewildered glance about her
for her hat.

"Yes, I'd forgotten. I must hurry. It takes me an hour to make up."

Immensely relieved, he handed her the hat, saw her put it on with
indifferent pulls and pats, and followed her to the door. At the top of
the stairs he pushed by her with a laughing,

"Here, let me go first. It's my job to lead."

She drew aside, and as he passed her he caught her eyes, lighted with a
soul-deep tenderness, the woman's look of surrender. Then as he descended