in her ears.  She could see Keith’s eyes, so easily to be read, showing out the impulses that crossed and possessed his mind.  Love for her she was sure she read, love and kindness for her, and mystification, and curiosity, and the hot slumbering desire for her that made his breathing short and heavy.  In a dream she thought of these things, and in a dream she felt her own love for Keith rising and stifling her, so that she could not speak, but could only rest there in his arms, watching that beloved face and storing her memory with its precious betrayals.

Keith gently kissed her, and Jenny trembled.  A thousand temptations were whirling in her mind—­thoughts of his absence, their marriage, memory, her love...  With an effort she raised her lips again to his, kissing him in passion, so that when he as passionately responded it seemed as though she fainted in his arms and lost all consciousness but that of her love and confidence in him and the eager desire of her nature to yield itself where love was given.

CHAPTER X:  CINDERELLA

i

Through the darkness, and into the brightness of the moon’s light, the rolling notes of Big Ben were echoing and re-echoing, as each stroke followed and drove away the lingering waves of its predecessor and was in turn dispersed by the one that came after.  The sounds made the street noises sharper, a mere rattle against the richness of the striking clock.  It was an hour that struck; and the quarters were followed by twelve single notes.  Midnight.  And Jenny Blanchard was still upon the Minerva; and Emmy and Alf had left the theatre; and Pa Blanchard was alone in the little house in Kennington Park.

The silvered blackness of the Minerva was disturbed.  A long streak of yellow light showed from the door leading into the cabin while yet the sounds of the clock hung above the river.  It became ghostly against the moonlight that bleached the deck, a long grey-yellow finger pointing the way to the yacht’s side.

Jenny and Keith made their way up the steps and to the deck, and Jenny shivered a little in the strong light.  Her face was in shadow.  She hurried, restored to sanity by the sounds and the thought of her father.  Horror and self-blame were active in her mind—­not from the fear of discovery; but from shame at having for so long deserted him.

“Oh, hurry!” Jenny whispered, as Keith slipped over the side of the yacht into the waiting dinghy.  There was a silence, and presently the heavy cludder of oars against the boat’s side.

“Jenny!  Come along!” called Keith from the water.

Not now did Jenny shrink from the running tide.  Her one thought was to get home; and she had no inclination to think of what lay between her and Kennington Park.  She hardly understood what Keith said as he rowed to the steps.  She saw the bridge looming, its black shadow cutting the water that sparkled so dully in the moonlight; and then she saw the steps leading from the bridge to the river’s edge.  They were alongside; she was ashore; and Keith was pressing her hand in parting.  Still she could not look at him until she was at the top of the steps, when she turned and raised her hand in farewell.