hair.

"Bad boy! Let me go," she pleaded; and, with phenomenal obedience, he
unclasped his hands.

"See if you _can_ go now!"

It was his old childish game. The moment she stirred, his hands were
locked again.

"Son of my heart--I must!"

"One more kiss then--for luck!"

So she kissed him, for luck, and left him to his midnight browsings....

* * * * *

Next morning she sat among her cushions in the studio, ostensibly
reading a long letter from her father. Actually, her mind was intent on
Nevil, who stood at his easel absorbed in fragmentary studies for a new
picture--flying draperies; a man's face cleverly fore-shortened.

Though nearing fifty, he looked more like five-and-thirty; his face
singularly free of lines; his fair hair scarcely showing the intrusion
of grey. To her he seemed perennially young; and dearer than ever--if
that could be--as the years mellowed and deepened the love on which they
had boldly staked everything that counted most for them both. Yet, for
all her skill in divination, she could not tell precisely how he would
take the things Roy had to say; nor whether Roy himself would say them
in just the right way. With Nevil, so much depended on that.

Till this morning, she had scarcely realised how unobtrusively she had
been, as it were, their connecting link in all difficult or delicate
matters, where their natures were not quite in tune. But now, Roy being
a man, they must come to terms in their own fashion....

At the first far-off sound of his step on the stairs, she rose and came
over to the easel, and stood there a few moments--fascinated always by
the swift sure strokes.

"Good--eh?" he asked, smiling into her serious eyes.

She nodded. "Quite evident--you are in the mood!" Her fingers lightly
caressed the back of his hand. "I will come back later. _Such_ a tray of
vases waiting for me in the drawing-room!"

As Roy entered, she passed him and they exchanged a smile. Her eyes,
mutely blessing him, besought him not to let his eager tongue run away
with itself. Then she went out, leaving them together--the two who were
her world.

Down in the drawing-room, roses and sweet-peas, cut by Christine--her
fairy daughter--lay ready to hand. Between them they filled the lofty
room with fragrance and harmonies of delicate colour. Then Christine
flew to her beloved piano; and Lilamani wandered away to her no less
beloved rose-garden. Body and mind were res