She seemed to have become a new being this evening, an enchanting creature of flame and fire.  She said the most outrageous things at dinner, talking a lot of clever nonsense but sheering quickly away if any more serious strain of thought crept into the conversation.  For an instant she might plumb the depths, the next she would be winging lightly over the surface again, while a spray of sparkling laughter rose and fell around her.  With butterfly touch she opened the cupboard of memory, daring Peter the while with her eyes, skimming the thin ice of bygone times with the adroitness of an expert skater.

She was wearing the frock which had called forth Lady Gertrude’s ire, and from its filmy folds her head and shoulders emerged like a flower from its sheath, vividly arresting, her scarlet lips and “blue-violet” eyes splashes of live colour against the warm golden ivory of her skin.

It was Nan at her most emotionally distracting, now sparkling with an almost feverish vivacity, now drooping into sudden silence, while the lines of her delicately angled face took on a touching, languorous appeal.

But now, now that the need for playing a part was over, and she stood waiting for Mallory’s return, something tragic and desperate looked out of her eyes.  She paced the room restlessly.  Outside a gale was blowing.  She could hear the wind roaring through the street.  A sudden gust blew down the chimney and the flames flickered and bent beneath it, while in the distance sounded a low rumble of thunder—­the odd, unexpected thunder that comes sometimes in winter.

Presently the lift gates clanged apart.  She heard Mallory’s step as he crossed the hall.  Then the door of the room opened and shut.

She did not speak.  For a moment she could not even look up.  She was conscious of nothing beyond the one great fact that she and Peter were alone together—­alone, yet as much divided as though the whole world lay between them.

At last, with an effort, she raised her eyes and saw him standing beside her.  A stifled cry escaped her.  Throughout dinner, while the Fentons had been present, he had smiled and talked much as usual, so that the change in the man had been less noticeable.  But the mask was off now, and in repose his face showed, so worn and ravaged by grief that Nan cried out involuntarily in pitiful dismay.

Her first impulse was to fold her arms about him, drawing that lined and altered face against her bosom, hiding from sight the stark bitterness of the eyes that met her own, and comforting him as only the woman who loves a man knows how.

Then, like a black, surging flood, the memory of all that kept them apart rushed over her and she drew back her arms, half-raised, falling limply to her sides.  He made no effort to approach her.  Only his eyes remained fixed on her, hungrily devouring every line of the beloved face.

“Why did you come?” she asked at last.  Her voice seemed to herself as though it came from a great distance.  It sounded like someone else speaking.