enough to
kiss slowly her bare forearm and separately each supple finger. Jenny
leaned back unconscious of him, though remotely pleased by his kisses,
in her dull hell of memory where repressed inclinations smoldered like
the fire on which her eyes were fixed. What a fool she had been for the
sake of a silly powerlessness to take the plunge. It was bound to be
taken in the end--with someone. But Maurice was a rotter, and would he
after all have been worthy of the ultimate sacrifice? Would he not have
tired and put her under an even more severe humiliation? Toys were good
enough for Maurice. It was ridiculous to make life a burden for the sake
of one man. Twenty-two next October. How quickly the years were flying.
So, in a maze of speculation, regret and resolution, Jenny lay back in
the deep arm-chair while Jack Danby drugged her with kisses. She drew
her arm away at last, feeling hungry in a vague way.

"What's the time?" she asked, yawning.

"It must be after nine."

"Good lord, and we haven't had supper yet."

"Are we going to wait for Irene?" he inquired.

"Not for supper. She is late. I won't half tell her off."

Danby had risen from the hearth-rug and turned on the light. Jenny was
poking the fire vigorously.

"I've got _pate de foie gras"_ he informed her.

"Ugh, what horrible-looking stuff," she said.

"Don't you like it?"

"I never tried it."

"Try now," Danby urged.

"No, thanks, it looks like bad butter."

The rain increased in volume as the evening wore on. Still Irene did not
come. It struck eleven o'clock, and Jenny said she could wait no longer.

"I'll get a cab," said Danby.

"No; don't leave me here all alone," cried Jenny.

"Why should you go home at all to-night?" Danby breathed in a parched
whisper.

Jenny pressed her face against the jet-black window-pane and suddenly
away beyond Westminster there was a low bourdon of thunder.

"Stay with me," pleaded Danby; "it's such a night for love."

"Who cares?" murmured Jenny. "I've only myself to think about."

"What did you say?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"But you will stay?"

She nodded.

Chapter XXIX: _Columbine at Dawn_

Columbine, leaden-eyed, sat up in the strange room, where over an
unfamiliar chair lay huddled all her clothes. Through the luminous white
fog of dawn a silver sun, breasting the house-tops, gleamed very large.
Wan with a thousand meditations, seeming frail as the mist of St.
Valentine's morning, su