ound at her, with a half-turn of the head. In his glance was
good humour, good nature, protectiveness, and rectitude; and, more than
these, some of the old serenely smiling triumphant quality. He was not
ruined! He was not really in adversity! He remained the conqueror! She
thrilled with her relief.

"You're in my hands now--no mistake!" he murmured roguishly, picking up
the documents, and bending over the bag.

Hilda could hear a heavy footstep on the stairs, ascending.

In the same instant she had an extraordinary and disconcerting impulse
to seize his hand--she knew not why, whether it was to thank him, to
express her sympathy, or to express her submission. She struggled
against this impulse, but the impulse was part of herself and of her
inmost self; She was afraid, but her fear was pleasurable. She was
ashamed, but her shame was pleasurable. She wanted to move away from
where she stood. She thought: "If only I willed to move away, I could
move away. But, no! I shall not will it. I like remaining just here, in
this fear, this shame, and this agitation." She had a clear, dazzling
perception of the splendour and the fineness of sin; but she did not
know what sin! And all the time the muscles of her arm were tense in the
combat between the weakening desire to keep her arms still and the
growing desire to let her hand seize the hand of George Cannon. And all
the time the heavy footstep was ascending the interminable staircase.
And all the time George Cannon, with averted head, was fumbling in the
bag. And then, in a flash, she was really afraid; the fear was no longer
pleasurable, and her shame had become a curse. She said to herself: "I
cannot move, now. In a minute I shall do this horrible thing. Nothing
can save me." Despairing, she found a dark and tumultuous joy in
despair. The trance endured for ages, while disaster approached nearer
and nearer.

Then, after the heavy footstep had been climbing the staircase since
earth began, the door was brusquely opened, and the jovial fat face of
Mr. Boutwood appeared, letting in the louder sound of the piano.

"Oh, I beg pardon!" he muttered, pretending that he had assumed the
little room to be empty. The fact was that he was in search of George
Cannon, in whom he had recognized a fraternal spirit.

"Come in, Mr. Boutwood," said Hilda, with an easy, disdainful calm which
absolutely astounded herself. "That's all, then?" she added, to George
Cannon, glancing at him indif