morrow and the Wednesday--without Josiah--and the soft warmth of the
evenings and the glamour of the nights.

Oh, everything was too cruel and impossible! And wherever she turned she
seemed to see in blazing letters, "A second honeymoon!"

The first was a horrible, fearsome memory which was over long ago, but
the thought of a second--now that she knew what love meant, and what
life with the loved one might mean--Oh, it was
unbearable--terrible--impossible! better, much better, to die and have
done with it all.

She kept close to Barbara, and when Barbara moved she feverishly engaged
the Crow in conversation--any one--something to save her from any chance
of listening to Hector's persuasive words. And the Crow's kind heart was
pained by the hunted expression in her eyes. They seemed to ask for help
and sanctuary.

"Shall we walk down to the polo-field, Mrs. Brown?" he said, and she
gladly acquiesced and started with him.

If she had been a practised coquette she could not have done anything
more to fan the flame of Hector's passion.

Lady Harrowfield had detained him on the top of the steps, and he saw
her go off with the Crow and was unable to rush after them.

And when at last he was free he felt almost drunk with passion.

He had learned of Josiah's intended departure on the morrow, and that
Theodora would join him again on the Thursday, and his mind was made up.
On Wednesday night he would take her away with him to Italy. She should
never belong to Josiah any more. She was his in soul and mind already,
he knew, and she should be his in body, too, and he would cherish and
love and protect her to the end of his life.

Every detail of his plan matured itself in his brain. It only wanted her
consent, and that, when opportunity should be given him to plead his
cause, he did not greatly fear would be refused.

Hitherto he had ever restrained himself when alone with her, had
dominated his desire to make love to her; had never once, since Paris,
given way to passion or tender words during their moments together.

But he remembered that hour of bliss on the way from Versailles; he
remembered how she had thrilled, too, how he had made her feel and
respond to his every caress.

Yes--she was not cold, his white angel!

He was playing in the scratch team of the polo match, and the wild
excitement of his thoughts, coursing through his blood, caused him to
ride like a mad thing.

Never had he done so brilliantly.