s a palatial
apartment with stately French furniture that Dinah surveyed with awe. She
could not picture herself as hostess in so magnificent a setting. She
could only think of Rose de Vigne. It would have suited her flawless
beauty perfectly, and she knew that Rose's self-contained heart would
have revelled in such an atmosphere.

But it made her feel a stranger, and she hastened through it to the
cosier nest beyond.

This was a far more homely spot. The furniture here was French also, and
exquisitely delicate; but it was designed for comfort, and the gilded
state of the outer room was wholly absent.

A tea-table stood near a deeply-cushioned settee, and the kettle sang
merrily over a spirit-lamp.

Eustace dropped on to the settee and drew her suddenly and wholly
unexpectedly down upon his knee.

"Oh, Eustace!" she gasped, turning crimson.

He wound his arms about her, holding her two hands imprisoned. "Oh,
Daphne!" he mocked softly. "I've caught you--I've caught you! Here in
your own bower with no one to look on! No, you can't even flutter your
wings now. You've got to stay still and be worshipped."

He spoke with his face against her neck. She felt the burning of his
breath, and something;--an urgent, inner prompting--warned her to submit.
She sat there in his grasp in quivering silence.

His arms drew her nearer, nearer. It was as if he were gradually merging
her whole being into his. In a moment, with a little gasp, she gave him
her trembling lips.

He uttered a low laugh of mastery and gave his passion the rein,
overwhelming her with those devouring kisses that from the very outset
had always filled her with an indefinable sense of shame. She was quite
powerless to frustrate him. The delicate barrier of her reserve was
rudely torn away. The burning blush on face and neck served but to feed
the flame. He kissed the panting throat as if he would draw the very life
out of it. There was fierce possession in the holding of his arms. She
thought she would never be free again.

The first fiery wave spent itself at last, but even then he did not let
her go. He held her pressed to him, and she lay against his breast
trembling but wholly passive, overcome by an inexplicable longing to
hide, to hide.

After a few seconds he spoke to her, his voice oddly unsteady, very deep.
"You're driving me mad, Daphne. Do you know that?"

"I--I'm sorry," she faltered, trying to shelter her tingling face in his
coat.

His