She had said he was a gentleman—­bless her heart!

“This staircase is confoundedly dark,” he said; “I’ll strike a match.”

She waited, heart beating, listening to the scratching of the match-head against the woodwork.  When it flared, he raised it above his head and strode on before her, grim shadows falling round him, following him like noiseless ghosts.  Sally kept close behind.

“I used to live on the top floor,” he said, “until the day before yesterday; I’ve moved down now to the first.  There’s not so much difference in the rooms, but those four flights of stairs in this sort of light were a bit too much.”  He thought of the last woman who had climbed the stairs with him.  All she had said that evening, the first day he had met Sally, trooped through his mind in slow and vivid procession.  He compared her life with that of Sally’s, the ghastly hollowness of it in contrast with this child’s simplicity of faith.  The picture was an ugly one.  He shuddered before the first, no less than before the second; for whereas one repelled, the other drew him to itself with all its subtle fascinations.

“Now,” he said, forcing a smile and turning round to face her with his hand upon the handle of the door, “these are only bachelor’s quarters, remember; no soft cushions, no mirrors—­nothing.  And if you’ll stay there one second, I’ll light a couple of candles.  You’d far better have the room chucked at you all at once, than let it grow slowly to your eyes as I stalk round with a match.  Do you mind?”

“I?  Not a bit!” She laughed and turned with her back to the door, looking down the staircase which they had just ascended.  Her heart was still beating, throbbing with unwonted excitement and anticipation.  She knew she could trust, but there was a spring—­a vibration in the thought that they played with fire.  Yet what a harmless fire!  No stake in the marketplace at which the soul, the honour, the life of the victim is burnt!  No!  Nothing like that.  Only that fire which, when once it is lit, soothes, warms, nurses the hearts of men and women into love, and when once it is glowing white in heat, moulds them, forges them into the God-sent cohesion of unity.  What need had she to fear in playing with so tenderly fierce a fire as that?  None, and there was no trace of fear in the heart of her; but her pulses hammered; she felt them even in her throat.

“Now—­you can come in now!” Traill called, and he came to the door, opening it wide for her to pass through.

Sally entered—­two or three steps; then she stood there looking round her.  The old oak chests, carved some of them, worm-eaten here and there; the clean, pale, straw-coloured matting, no rugs of any description:  the dark green walls and the rough, heavy brass candle sconces that glittered against them, reflecting the candle flames in every polished surface:  it was almost barbaric, more like a reception room of a presbytery than a living room; but a presbytery decorated to convey the best of a strong and self-reliant mind, rather than to pander with a taste ornate to the futile conception of a God.