"Well," she said, as he did not speak, "have you got through your
business in town?"

He did not answer her, but came straight forward into the room, took her
by the shoulders, and drew her round so that she faced the light. "What
have you been doing?" he said.

She faced him unshrinking, undismayed. The Chris of a few hours before
would have drawn back in open fear from the piercing scrutiny of those
grey eyes, but this Chris was different. This Chris was a woman with pale
lips that smiled a baffling smile and eyes that barred the way to her
soul, a woman who had found in her womanhood a weapon of defence that no
man could thrust aside.

"I haven't been doing anything," she said indifferently, "except run
round after Aunt Philippa--oh yes, and write up to town for some things I
wanted. Aunt Philippa is really going to leave us to-day week. I can't
think what we shall do without her, can you? Now tell me about your
doings."

She lifted her face suddenly for his kiss, ignoring the fact that he was
still holding her as if for inquisition.

He drew her sharply into his arms and held her fast. "You are very cold,
sweetheart," he said.

She flushed a little at his action, though the lips he kissed were like
ice. "I am tired," she said.

She expected him to set her free, but he did not. He held her closer
still. Not till afterwards did she realize that it was the first time he
had ever held her thus and she had not quivered like a frightened bird
against his breast. She was scarcely thinking of him now. She was as one
who stands before a scorching fire too rapt in reverie to feel the heat.

Yet after a little he did succeed in infusing a certain degree of warmth
into her. Her arms went round his neck, though hardly of her own
volition, and her lips returned his kiss. But there was no spirit in her.
She leaned against him as if spent.

"Are you quite well, dear?" he asked her tenderly.

"Oh, quite! I am always well." She uttered a little tremulous laugh and
raised her head from his shoulder. "Trevor," she said, "I am afraid you
will think me very extravagant, but, do you know, I haven't any money to
go on with. I had a notice from the bank to-day to say my account was
overdrawn."

Again it was not the Chris he knew who uttered the words. It was a woman
of the world to whom his passing displeasure had become a matter almost
of indifference.

"Chris," he said abruptly, "what is the matter with you, child? Are you