ith a risk.

Summerhay, who loved Gyp, was not tired of her either physically or
mentally, and even felt sure he would never tire, had yet dallied for
months with this risk which yesterday had come to a head. And now,
taking his seat in the train to return to her, he felt unquiet; and
since he resented disquietude, he tried defiantly to think of other
things, but he was very unsuccessful. Looking back, it was difficult for
him to tell when the snapping of his defences had begun. A preference
shown by one accustomed to exact preference is so insidious. The
girl, his cousin, was herself a gambler. He did not respect her as he
respected Gyp; she did not touch him as Gyp touched him, was not--no,
not half--so deeply attractive; but she had--confound her! the power
of turning his head at moments, a queer burning, skin-deep fascination,
and, above all, that most dangerous quality in a woman--the lure of an
imperious vitality. In love with life, she made him feel that he was
letting things slip by. And since to drink deep of life was his nature,
too--what chance had he of escape? Far-off cousinhood is a dangerous
relationship. Its familiarity is not great enough to breed contempt, but
sufficient to remove those outer defences to intimacy, the conquest of
which, in other circumstances, demands the conscious effort which warns
people whither they are going.

Summerhay had not realized the extent of the danger, but he had known
that it existed, especially since Scotland. It would be interesting--as
the historians say--to speculate on what he would have done, if he could
have foretold what would happen. But he had certainly not foretold the
crisis of yesterday evening. He had received a telegram from her at
lunch-time, suggesting the fulfilment of a jesting promise, made in
Scotland, that she should have tea with him and see his chambers--a
small and harmless matter. Only, why had he dismissed his clerk so
early? That is the worst of gamblers--they will put a polish on the
risks they run. He had not reckoned, perhaps, that she would look so
pretty, lying back in his big Oxford chair, with furs thrown open so
that her white throat showed, her hair gleaming, a smile coming and
going on her lips; her white hand, with polished nails, holding that
cigarette; her brown eyes, so unlike Gyp's, fixed on him; her slim foot
with high instep thrust forward in transparent stocking. Not reckoned
that, when he bent to take her cup, she would pu