“Will you come in for a moment?” she asked.

Hillyard followed her up a paved pathway, through a tiny garden enclosed in a high wall, to her door.  She led him into a room bright with flowers and pictures.  Curtains of purple brocade were drawn across the window, a fire burned on the hearth, and thick soft cushions on broad couches gave the room a look of comfort.

“You live here alone?” Hillyard asked.

“Yes.”

She turned suddenly towards him as he gazed about the room.

“I married a long while ago.”  She stood in front of him like a slim child.  It seemed impossible.  “Yes, before I knew anything—­to get away from home.  Our marriage did not go smoothly.  After three years I ran away—­oh, not with any one I cared for; he happened to be there, that was all.  After a month he deserted me in Italy.  I have fortunately some money of my own and a few friends who did not turn me down—­Lady Splay, for instance.  There!”

She moved to a table and poured out for Hillyard a whisky-and-soda.

“My question was thoughtless,” he said.  “I did not mean that you should answer it as you did.”

“I preferred you to know.”

“I am honoured,” Hillyard replied.

Stella Croyle sat down upon a low stool in front of the fire.  Hillyard sank into one of the deep-cushioned chairs.  The day of tension was over, and there was no doubt about the success of “The Dark Tower.”  Stella Croyle sat very quietly, with the firelight playing upon her face and her delicate dress.  Her vivacity had dropped from her like the pretty cloak she had thrown aside.  Both became her well, but they were for use out-of-doors, and Hillyard was grateful that she had discarded them.

“You are tired, no doubt,” he said, reluctantly.  “I ought to go.”

“No,” she answered.  “It is pleasant before the fire here.”

“Thank you.  I should like to stay for a little while.  I did not know until I came into this room with how much anxiety I had been looking forward to this night.”

He leaned forward with his hands clenched, and saw pass in the bright coals glimpses of the long tale of days when endeavour was fruitless and hopes were disappointed.  “Success!  Lord, how I wanted it!” he whispered.

Stella Croyle looked at him with a smile.

“It was sure to come to you, since you wanted it enough,” she said.

“Yes, but in time?” exclaimed Hillyard.

“In time for what?”

Hillyard broke into a laugh.

“I don’t know,” he answered.  He was silent for a little while, and the comfort of the room, the quiet of the night, the pleasant sympathy of Stella Croyle, all wrought upon him.  “I don’t know,” he repeated slowly.  “I am waiting.  But out of my queer life something more has got to come—­something more and something different.  I have always been sure of it, but I used to be afraid that the opportunity would come while I was still chained to the handles of the barrow.”