ng in an arm-chair, with a
novel on her lap and spectacles on her nose, was almost cosy. She had
left, before going to her matinee, _Just a Heroine_ at one of its most
thrilling crises, and Lizzie knew that the talk with Breton depended for
its very existence on the relative strength of the play and the novel.
If _Love and the King_ were the more powerful, then would Mrs. Rand make
a discursive third. But no, for a moment there was a pause, then,
indecisively, Mrs. Rand took up her book. For a while she talked to
Breton over its pages, then the light of excitement stole into her eyes,
her soul was netted by the snarer, Breton was forgotten as though he had
never been.

Their chairs were by the open window and a very little breeze came and
played around them. In the square there was that sense of some imminent
occurrence, a breathless suggestion of suspense, that a hot evening
sometimes carries with it. The stars blazed in a purple sky and a moon
was full rounded, a plate of gold; beneath such splendour the square was
cool and dim.

"You mustn't think mother rude," Lizzie said with a little smile. "If
she once gets deep into a book nothing can tear her from it."

He said something, but she could see that he was not thinking of Mrs.
Rand. It was always in the evening, she thought, when uncertain colours
and shadows filled the air, that he looked his best. He touched, now, as
he had touched on that day of their first meeting, a note of something
fine and strange--someone, very young and perhaps very foolish and
impetuous, but someone armoured in courage and set apart for some great
purpose.

He sat back in his chair, flinging, every now and again, little restless
glances beyond the window, pulling sometimes at his beard, answering her
absent-mindedly. Then suddenly he began, fiercely, looking away from
her--

"Miss Rand, I've got an apology to make to you----"

His voice was so low that she could only catch the words by leaning
forward--"To me?"

"Yes--I've been wanting to speak all these weeks. It seemed right enough
before, but since I've known you I've felt ashamed of it--as though I'd
done something wrong."

"What is it, Mr. Breton?" Her clear grave eyes encouraged him.

"Why--I came to this house, took my rooms, simply because I knew that
you were here----"

"That I was here?"

"Yes. I was looking about in this part of the world for rooms. I wanted
to be--near Portland Place, you know. I came here and o