. Craven suspects."

Olva met the frightened eyes--"He does not suspect."

"Didn't you hear? He called out to the cad you were going for. . . ."
Then, in a kind of whimper, dismal enough in the dreary little
street--"He'll find out--Craven--I know he will. . . . Oh! my God! what
_shall_ I do!"

Some one had broken the glass of the street lamp and the gas flared
above them, noisily.

CHAPTER XII

LOVE TO THE "VALSE TRISTE"

1

It was all, when one looked back upon it, the rankest melodrama. The
darkness, the flaming lamp, Craven's voice and eyes, Bunning . . .
it had all arranged itself as though it bad been worked by a master
dramatist. At any rate there they now were, the three of them--Olva,
Bunning, Craven--placed in a situation that could not possibly stay
as it was. In which direction was it going to develop? Bunning had no
control at all, it would be he who would supply the next move . . .
meanwhile in the back of Olva's mind there was that banging sense of
urgency, no time to be lost. He must see Margaret and speak before
Rupert spoke to her. Perhaps, even now, Craven was not certain. If he
only knew of how much Craven was sure! Did he feel sure enough to speak
to Margaret?

Meanwhile the first and most obvious thing was that Bunning was in a
state of terror that threatened instant exposure. The man was evidently
realizing that now, for the first time, he had a big thing with which he
must grapple. He must grapple with his devotion to Olva, with his terror
of Craven, but, most of all, with his terror of himself. That last was
obviously the thing that tortured him, for, having now been given by the
High Gods an opportunity of great service, so miserable a creature did
he consider himself that he would not for an instant trust his control.
He was trying, Olva saw, with an effort that in its intensity was
pathetic to prove himself worthy of the chance that had been offered
him, as though it were the one sole opportunity that he would ever be
given, but to appear to the world something that he was not was an art
that Bunning and his kind could never acquire--that is their tragedy.
It was the fate of Bunning that his boots and spectacles should always
negative any attempt that he might make at a striking personality.

On the night after the "Rag" he sat in Olva's room and made a supreme
effort at control.

"If you can only hold on," Olva told him, "to the end of term. It's only
a week or two now. Jus