"you have not told me yet whether your
pilgrimage to Paris was a success."

He turned upon her almost fiercely.

"Yes!" he answered. "It was! A complete success! I haven't an atom of
sentiment left! Thank goodness!"

She laughed softly.

"I don't believe it," she whispered in his ear. "You went abroad to be
cured of an incurable disease. Do you imagine that the Mademoiselle
Rosines of the world count for anything? You foolish, foolish person. Do
you imagine that if I had not known you--I should have let you go?"

"I am not one of your tenants," he answered grimly.

"You might be," she laughed.

"You are very kind," he declared. "But I need not tell you that nothing
in this world would induce me to become one."

She walked on, humming to herself. He was hard to tame, she told
herself, but the end was so sure. Yet all her experience of his sex had
shown her nothing like this. It was the first time she had played such a
part. Was it only the novelty which she found attractive? She stole an
upward glance at him through the twilight. Taller and more powerful than
ever he seemed in the gathering darkness--so far as looks were concerned
he was certainly desirable enough. And yet the world--her world, was
full of handsome men. It must be something else which he possessed,
some other less obvious gift, perhaps that flavour of puritanism about
his speech and deportment, of which she was always conscious. He
resisted where other men not only succumbed but rushed to meet their
fate. It must be that, or----

She herself became suddenly serious. She looked straight ahead down the
darkening lane. Fate could surely not play her a trick so scurvy as
this. It could not be that she cared. Her hands were suddenly clenched;
a little cry broke from her lips. Her heart was beating like a girl's;
the delicious thrill of youth seemed to be thawing her long frozen
blood. Not again! she prayed, not again! It was a catastrophe this;
grotesque, impossible! She thrust out her hands, as though to guard
herself from some impending danger. Macheson turned to look at her in
surprise, and her eyes were glowing like stars.

"Is anything the matter?" he asked.

She laughed unnaturally.

"A memory," she answered, "a superstition if you like. Some one was
walking over the grave of my forgotten days."

She pointed to the front of the low white house, now only a few yards
away. A dogcart stood there waiting, with some luggage at the back.
Ste