ught and hoped that Monck would smoke his cigarette and suffer
himself to be lulled into somnolence by such melody as she was able to
extract from the crazy old instrument; but he disappointed her.

He smoked indeed, lounging out in the verandah, while she sought with
every allurement to draw him in and charm him to blissful, sleepy
contentment. But it presently came to her that there was something
dogged in his refusal to be so drawn, and when she realized that she
brought her soft _nocturne_ to a summary close and turned round to him
with just a hint of resentment.

He was leaning in the doorway, the cigarette gone from his lips. His
face was turned to the night. His attitude seemed to express that
patience which attends upon iron resolution. He looked at her over his
shoulder as she paused.

"Why don't you sing?" he said.

A little tremor of indignation went through her. He spoke with the
gentle indulgence of one who humours a child. Only once had she ever
sung to him, and then he had sat in such utter immobility and silence
that she had questioned with herself afterwards if he had cared for it.

She rose with a wholly unconscious touch of majesty. "I have no voice
to-night," she said.

"Then come here!" he said.

His voice was still absolutely gentle but it held an indefinable
something that made her raise her brows.

She went to him nevertheless, and he put his hand through her arm and
drew her close to his side. The night was heavy with a brooding
heat-haze that blotted out the stars. The little twanging instrument
down by the river was silent.

For a space Monck did not speak, and gradually the tension went out of
Stella. She relaxed at length and laid her cheek against his shoulder.

His arm went round her in a moment; he held her against his heart.
"Stella," he said, "do you ever think to yourself nowadays that I am a
very formidable person to live with?"

"Never," she said.

His arm tightened about her. "You are not afraid of me any longer?"

She smiled a little. "What is this leading up to?"

He bent suddenly, his lips against her forehead. "Dear heart, if I am
wrong--forgive me! But--why are you trying to deceive me?"

She had never heard such tenderness in his voice before; it thrilled her
through and through, checking her first involuntary dismay. She hid her
face upon his breast, clasping him close, trembling from head to foot.

He turned, still holding her, and led her to the sofa. The