“Great baby!”

Her hand was kissed again and loosed.  She detected a faint, sad smile on his face.

“Ah!”

He rose, towering above her.

“I know I’m a drunken sot,” he said.  “It was only because I knew I was drunk that I didn’t want to come with you last night.  And I called this morning to apologise.  I did really.  I’d no other thought in my poor old head.  I wanted you to understand why I tried to hit that chap.  The other woman had spoken to me earlier, and I suppose she was jealous, seeing me with you.  She said something to him about you, and he laughed, and I had to hit him for laughing.  I couldn’t hit her.  If I’d caught him an upper cut with my left he’d have gone down, and he wouldn’t have got up by himself—­I warrant you—­”

“What did she say?” Christine interrupted, not comprehending the technical idiom and not interested in it.

“I dunno; but he laughed—­anyhow he smiled.”

Christine turned on the light, and then went quickly to the window to draw the curtains.

“Take off your overcoat,” she commanded him kindly.

He obeyed, blinking.  She sat down on the sofa and, raising her arms, drew the pins from her hat and put it on the table.  She motioned him to sit down too, and left him a narrow space between herself and the arm of the sofa, so that they were very close together.  Then, with puckered brow, she examined him.

“I’d better tell you,” he said.  “It does me good to confess to you, you beautiful thing.  I had a bottle of whisky upstairs in my room at the Grosvenor.  Night before last, when I arrived there, I couldn’t get to sleep in the bed.  Hadn’t been used to a bed for so long, you know.  I had to turn out and roll myself up in a blanket on the floor.  And last night I spent drinking by myself.  Yes, by myself.  Somehow, I don’t mind telling you.  This morning I must have been worse than I thought I was—­”

He stopped and put his hand on her shoulder.

“There are tears in your eyes, little thing.  Let me kiss your eyes....  No!  I’ll respect you.  I worship you.  You’re the nicest little woman I ever saw, and I’m a brute.  But let me kiss your eyes.”

She held her face seriously, even frowning somewhat.  And he kissed her eyes gently, one after the other, and she smelt his contaminated breath.

He was a spare man, with a rather thin, ingenuous, mysterious, romantic, appealing face.  It was true that her eyes had moistened.  She was touched by his look and his tone as he told her that he had been obliged to lie on the floor of his bedroom in order to sleep.  There seemed to be an infinite pathos in that trifle.  He was one of the fighters.  He had fought.  He was come from the horrors of the battle.  A man of power.  He had killed.  And he was probably ten or a dozen years her senior.  Nevertheless, she felt herself to be older than he was, wiser, more experienced.  She almost wanted