A flare of lightning and again the menacing roll of thunder.  Then, sudden as the swoop of a bat, the electric burners quivered and went out, leaving only the glow of the fire to pierce the gloom.  In the dim light she could see his face bent over her—­the face of her man, the man she loved, and all that was woman and lover within her leaped to answer the call of her mate—­the infinite, imperious demand of human love that has waited and hungered through empty days and nights till at last it shall be answered by the loved one.

For a moment she lay unresisting in his arms, helpless in the grip of the passion of love which had engulfed them both.  Then the memory of the shadows—­the sentinels with drawn swords—­came back to her.  The swords flashed, cleaving the dividing line afresh before her eyes.

Slowly she leaned away from his breast, her face suddenly drawn and tortured.

“Peter, I must go back—­”

“Back?  To Trenby?” Then, savagely:  “You can’t.  I want you!”

He stooped his head and she felt his mouth on hers.

A glimmer of pale firelight searched out the two tense faces; the shadowy room seemed listening, waiting—­waiting—­

“I want you!” he reiterated hoarsely.  “I can’t live without you any longer.  Nan . . . come with me . . .”

A tremulous flicker of lightning shivered across the darkness.  The dead electric burners leaped into golden globes of light once more, and in the garish, shattering glare the man and woman sprang apart and stood staring at each other, trembling, with passion-stricken faces. . . .

The long silence was broken at last, broken by a little inarticulate sound—­half-sigh, half-sob—­from Nan.

Peter raised his head and looked at her.  His face was grey.

“God!” he muttered.  “Where were we going?”

He stumbled to the chimneypiece, and, leaning his arms on it, buried his face against them.

Presently she spoke to him, timidly.

“Peter?” she said.  “Peter?”

At the sound of her voice he turned towards her, and the look in his eyes hurt her like a physical blow.

“Oh, my dear . . . my dear!” she cried, trembling towards him.  “Don’t look like that . . .  Ah! don’t look like that!”

And her hands went fluttering out in the mother-yearning that every woman feels for her man in trouble.

“Forgive me, Nan . . .  I’m sorry.”

She hardly recognised the low, toneless voice.

Her eyes were shining.  “Sorry for loving me?” she said.

“No—­not for loving you.  God knows, I can’t help that!  But because I would have taken you and made you mine . . . you who are not mine at all.”

“I’m all yours, really, Peter.”

She came a few steps nearer to him, standing sweet and unafraid before him, her grave eyes shining with a kind of radiance.

“Dear,” she went on simply, throwing out her hands in a little defenceless gesture, “if you want me, I’ll come to you. . . .  Not—­not secretly . . . while I’m still pledged to Roger.  But openly, before all the world.  I’ll go with you . . . if you’ll take me.”