room
for the second time in twenty-four hours. There was a difference in the
situation that morning, although the man did not know it. On this
occasion Fanny Glen was a prisoner as well as he.

He could not see her face as her veil still remained down, yet there
was no mistaking her form. Indeed he felt that had it been midnight he
would have recognized her presence. His heart leaped within his breast
at the sight of her. He thought it beat so she might almost have heard
it in the perfect silence that had fallen between them.

His first impulse was to run toward her and take her in his arms once
more. Above all his troubled conclusions of the night before the
recollection of that instant when he had held her so closely still
remained dominant. In her presence he almost forgot everything but
that. Yet he looked at her impassively for a moment, bowed slightly,
then turned and walked deliberately to the other end of the room,
resuming his station at the window looking out to sea.

She had an excellent view of his back. The beating of his heart did not
manifest itself outwardly after all. To her gaze he appeared as
impassive, as quiet, as motionless, as if he had been cut out of iron
like the grated bars. It was a most unsatisfactory beginning to what
must prove an important interview. They played at cross purposes
indeed. He had sacrificed himself to save her, she had sacrificed
herself to save him, and here they were both prisoners apparently, and
things were as unsettled as ever!

Poor Fanny Glen was infinitely more surprised at the sight of her lover
than he had been at the sight of her. Not until she had fairly entered
the room and the door had been closed behind her had she realized that
she was not alone, that he was there. She stood rooted to the spot,
waiting to see what he would do. Had he followed his first impulse,
which would have been to sweep her to his breast, he would have found
her unresisting, submissive, acquiescent. The kiss which had been given
her last night still trembled upon her lips. It was for the taking, she
was his for the asking.

Yet his first movement, save for that cold, perfunctory salutation, had
been one of indifference amounting to contempt. He despised her, then;
he hated her. She had brought him to a terrible position. Ah, well, he
would be sorry for her when he learned her reason, and he would be more
sorry for his treatment of her when he learned that he would be free
and she