ny rate, here
they were, out in the wind and the darkness, every step carrying them
farther away from that moving patch of noise and light behind.

'We shall find a cab at once in Park Lane,' he said. 'Are you warm?'

'Perfectly.'

A fur hood fitted round her face, to which the colour was coming back.
She held her cloak tightly round her, and her little feet, fairly well
shod, slipped in and out on the dry frosty pavement.

Suddenly they passed a huge unfinished house, the building of which was
being pushed on by electric light. The great walls, ivory white in the
glare, rose into the purply-blue of the starry February sky, and as they
passed within the power of the lamps, each saw with noonday distinctness
every line and feature in the other's face. They swept on--the night,
with its alternations of flame and shadow, an unreal and enchanted world
about them. A space of darkness succeeded the space of daylight. Behind
them in the distance was the sound of hammers and workmen's voices;
before them the dim trees of the park. Not a human being was in sight.
London seemed to exist to be the mere dark friendly shelter of this
wandering of theirs.

A blast of wind blew her cloak out of her grasp. But before she could
close it again, an arm was flung around her. She could not speak or
move, she stood passive, conscious only of the strangeness of the wintry
wind, and of this warm breast against which her cheek was laid.

'Oh, stay there!' a voice said close to her ear. 'Rest there--pale tired
child--pale tired little child!'

That moment seemed to last an eternity. He held her close, cherishing
and protecting her from the cold--not kissing her--till at length she
looked up with bright eyes, shining through happy tears.

'Are you sure at last?' she said, strangely enough, speaking out of the
far depths of her own thought to his.

'Sure!' he said, his expression changing. 'What can I be sure of? I am
sure that I am not worth your loving, sure that I am poor,
insignificant, obscure, that if you give yourself to me you will be
miserably throwing yourself away!'

She looked at him, still smiling, a white sorceress weaving spells about
him in the darkness. He drew her lightly gloved hand through his arm,
holding the fragile fingers close in his, and they moved on.

'Do you know,' he repeated--a tone of intense melancholy replacing the
tone of passion,--'how little I have to give you?'

'I know,' she answered, her face t