ow room, he crossed over
to them, and offered his hand to Lennan; then drawing a low chair forward
between their two chairs, sat down.

"So you're back," he said. "Have a good time?"

"Thanks, yes; very."

"Luck for Olive you were there; those places are dull holes."

"It was luck for me."

"No doubt." And with those words he turned to his wife. His elbows
rested along the arms of his chair, so that his clenched palms were
upwards; it was as if he knew that he was holding those two, gripped one
in each hand.

"I wonder," he said slowly, "that fellows like you, with nothing in the
world to tie them, ever sit down in a place like London. I should have
thought Rome or Paris were your happy hunting-grounds." In his voice, in
those eyes of his, a little bloodshot, with their look of power, in his
whole attitude, there was a sort of muffled menace, and contempt, as
though he were thinking: "Step into my path, and I will crush you!"

And Lennan thought:

"How long must I sit here?" Then, past that figure planted solidly
between them, he caught a look from her, swift, sure, marvellously
timed--again and again--as if she were being urged by the very presence
of this danger. One of those glances would surely--surely be seen by
Cramier. Is there need for fear that a swallow should dash itself
against the wall over which it skims? But he got up, unable to bear it
longer.

"Going?" That one suave word had an inimitable insolence.

He could hardly see his hand touching Cramier's heavy fist. Then he
realized that she was standing so that their faces when they must say
good-bye could not be seen. Her eyes were smiling, yet imploring; her
lips shaped the word: "To-morrow!" And squeezing her hand desperately,
he got away.

He had never dreamed that to see her in the presence of the man who owned
her would be so terrible. For a moment he thought that he must give her
up, give up a love that would drive him mad.

He climbed on to an omnibus travelling West. Another twenty-four hours
of starvation had begun. It did not matter at all what he did with them.
They were simply so much aching that had to be got through somehow--so
much aching; and what relief at the end? An hour or two with her,
desperately holding himself in.

Like most artists, and few Englishmen, he lived on feelings rather than
on facts; so, found no refuge in decisive resolutions. But he made
many--the resolution to give her up; to be true t