that
the presence of Ingram hindered. And as the same constrained silence
once more fell upon them, the elusive odour of her perfume seemed to
obtrude again, as though taking the opportunity to assert itself.

Ingram at length remarked that the hour was late, and that if Cleo
would excuse them he would escort Mr. Druce back. He was glad that
harmony had been re-established, and he expressed his thanks to Cleo
for so willingly receiving his friend and helping to heal the breach.

Morgan did not mind having this first interview with Cleo thus cut
short, especially as he could not talk with Ingram there to listen. He
was, moreover, uncomfortably aware that Ingram was watching him
closely the whole time, and he did not fail to detect the tinge of
irony in the novelist's last little speech. But he felt he had closed
his account with the man, and he would not trouble his brains any more
about his motives or meaning. He therefore rose to say good-night to
Cleo. She offered them wine, but both men refused, so she smilingly
gave her hand again without striving to detain them.

Outside, each seemed given up to his own thoughts. Morgan would make
no comment on what had been revealed to him, nor apparently did Ingram
want to hear any.

They separated at a cab rank, each taking a separate vehicle. And only
as they were about to part did Ingram break the silence:

"I need hardly tell you you have seen a hidden side of my life. I look
to you to forget."

CHAPTER IV.

The very rapidity of the glimpse that Morgan had had into that
Hampstead interior made it the more fascinating to dwell upon in
imagination, and, though the definite figure of Cleo now took the
place of the vague, smiling woman who had always been with him, it
seemed to him that he had discerned Cleo's every feature from the
beginning.

The general flow of his thoughts and moods were coloured by this
fantastic adventure on which, he now felt, he was fairly embarked.
Nevertheless his life was not proceeding precisely on the lines he had
conceived when he had resolved to transport his imaginative
combinations from the field of paper to the field of life, to weave
dreams from reality instead of from thought. That disattachment he had
decided on in order that he might abandon himself wholly to the urging
of his temperament was proving a much more gradual process than he had
supposed.

For as yet the old relations were being continued; the man in
him--whi