“Charming, my little girl.”

She shook her head, gazing at the front of the piano.

He murmured—­it was almost a whisper: 

“Take your things off.”

She looked round and up at him, and the light diffused from a thousand lustres fell on her mysterious and absorbed face.

“My little rabbit, I cannot stay with thee to-night.”

The words, though he did not by any means take them as final, seriously shocked him.  For five days he had known that Mrs. Braiding, subject to his convenience, was going down to Bramshott to see the defender of the Empire.  For four days he had hesitated whether or not he should tell her that she might stay away for the night.  In the end he had told her to stay away; he had insisted that she should stay; he had protested that he was quite ready to look after himself for a night and a morning.  She had gone, unwillingly, having first arranged a meal which he said he was to share with a friend—­naturally, for Mrs. Braiding, a male friend.  She had wanted him to dine at the club, but he had explained to Mrs. Braiding that he would be busy upon hospital work, and that another member of the committee would be coming to help him—­the friend, of course.  Even when he had contrived this elaborate and perfect plot he had still hesitated about the bold step of inviting Christine to the flat.  The plan was extremely attractive, but it held dangers.  Well, he had invited her.  If she had not been at home, or if she had been unwilling to come, he would not have felt desolated; he would have accepted the fact as perhaps providential.  But she was at home; she was willing; she had come.  She was with him; she had put him into an ecstasy of satisfaction and anticipation.  One evening alone with her in his own beautiful flat!  What a frame for her and for love!  And now she said that she would not stay.  It was incredible; it could not be permitted.

“But why not?  We are happy together.  I have just refused a dinner because of—­this.  Didn’t you hear me on the ’phone?”

“Thou wast wrong,” she smiled.  “I am not worth a dinner.  It is essential that I should return home.  I am tired—­tired.  It is Sunday night, and I have sworn to myself that I will pass this evening at home—­alone.”

Exasperating, maddening creature!  He thought:  “I fancied I knew her, and I don’t know her.  I’m only just beginning to know her.”  He stared steadily at her soft, serious, worried, enchanting face, and tried to see through it into the arcana of her queer little brain.  He could not.  The sweet face foiled him.

“Then why come?”

“Because I wished to be nice to thee, to prove to thee how nice I am.”

She seized her gloves.  He saw that she meant to go.  His demeanour changed.  He was aware of his power over her, and he would use it.  She was being subtle; but he could be subtle too, far subtler than Christine.  True, he had not penetrated her face.  Nevertheless his instinct, and his male gift of ratiocination, informed him that beneath her gentle politeness she was vexed, hurt, because he had got rid of Mrs. Braiding before receiving her.  She had her feelings, and despite her softness she could resent.  Still, her feelings must not be over-indulged; they must not be permitted to make a fool of her.  He said, rather teasingly, but firmly: