flinched at the memory.  “Every glance, every gesture, every word speaks to me of things which he cannot utter, which are unutterable,” and yet even with the assurance she felt as if she were living in an obscure and painful dream—­as if the element of unreality were a part of his smile, of his voice, of the feverish longing from which she told herself that she would presently awake.  It was as if she moved an illusion among illusions, and yet felt the unreal quality of herself and of the things outside.

CHAPTER IX

THE TRIUMPH OF THE EGO

He came punctually at three o’clock on the following afternoon, and even as he entered the room, she was conscious of a slight disappointment because, in some perfectly indefinable way, he was different from what she had hoped that he would be.

“This is the first peaceful moment I have had for twenty-four hours,” he remarked, as he flung himself into a chair before the small wood fire; “a man I knew was inconsiderate enough to die and make me the guardian of his son, and I’ve had to overhaul the chap’s property almost before the funeral was over.”

A frown of nervous irritation wrinkled his forehead, but as he turned to her it faded quickly before the kindling animation in his look.  “By Jove, I’ve thought of you every single minute since I was here,” he pursued.  “What a persistent way you have of interfering with a fellow’s peace of mind.  I’ve known nothing like it in my life.”

“I hope at least I didn’t damage the property,” she observed, and almost with the words she wondered why she had longed so passionately yesterday for his presence.  Now that he had come she felt neither the delight of realised expectation nor the final peace of renouncement.

“Well, it wasn’t your fault if you didn’t,” he replied, leaning his head against the chair-back and looking at her with his intimate and charming smile.  “I had to fight hard enough to keep you out even of the stocks.  Was I as much in your way, I wonder?”

She shook her head.  “In my way?  I wouldn’t allow it.  Why should I?”

“Why, indeed?” his genial irony was in his glance and he held her gaze until she felt the warm blood mount swiftly to her forehead.  “Why, indeed unless you wanted to?” he laughed.

His eyes moved to the window, and she followed the large, slightly coarsened features of his profile and the fullness of his jaw which lent a suggestion of brutality to his averted face.  Was it possible that she found an attraction in mere animal vitality?  She wondered; then his caressing glance was turned upon her, and she forgot to ask herself the useless question.

“So I must presume, then, that I haven’t disturbed you?” he enquired gayly.

Her eyes lingered upon him for a moment before she answered.  “Oh, no, it wasn’t you, it was Gerty,” she replied.

He drew nearer until the arm of his chair touched her own.  “I thought at least that my character was safe with Gerty,” he exclaimed, not without the annoyance of an easily aroused vanity.