“That’s my sister,” he said hurriedly, breaking into conversation—­the man pursued and seeking sanctuary.  He could not trust himself to look closely at her again.  The boiling of the milk was an action of refuge; he crushed the saucepan down on to the glowing coals.  She had said he was a gentleman.

“Your sister?” Sally whispered.  He did not turn; he did not see her lips twitching in the reaction of relief.  He had known nothing of the whirlwind that had been sweeping through her mind.  All that play he had lost and yet was no loser.  Had he seen the jealous hunger in her heart, it would have pointed the rowels of the spur that was already drawing its blood.

“Yes; she lives down in Buckinghamshire.  My father left her the place.  She’s married.  That was done of her when she was twenty.”

“Apsley Manor?”

“Yes,” he twisted round.  “How did you know the name of the place?”

“I saw it in Who’s Who?”

“Oh—­” He laughed—­laughed hard.  “Of course, you told me.  Yes, Apsley Manor.  It’s a fine old place.”

“I’m sure it is.  I’ve often—­tried—­to picture it.”

“I’ll take you there one day to see it.”

It was out!  Ripped from him on the impulse.  How could he take her to see it, if they were not going to meet again after this?  But he had never determined that they were not to meet again; only that he would not bring her to his rooms.  It amounted to the same thing.  He was not the man to let his inclinations fool him.  If they met, what was there to keep him from bringing her here?  Nothing!  He knew he would do it.  He hoped then that she would take no notice of his remark; but he hoped in vain.  She leapt to it, eyes glinting with delight.  To her that offer conveyed everything.  She saw herself down there in the country with him, the spring just lifting its promise of life, like a child, out of the cradle of the earth.  She heard him telling her that he loved her.  She felt herself pledging the very soul that God had given her into the open hollow of his hands.  Take no notice of his remark?  Her whole instinct lifted to it.

“I don’t believe there’s anything else I should like so well,” she exclaimed intensely.

He inwardly cursed his impulsiveness.  “Oh, well, that’ll be splendid,” he said soberly.  “Only it’s no good going down at this time of the year.  The country now’s a grave, a sort of God’s acre where only dead things are buried.  I can’t stand the country at this time of the year.”

“No, of course not.  It’s much too cold now; but in the spring—­”

“Yes,” he jumped at that—­“in the spring.  That’s the time.”

Then he thought so too.  Perhaps the same fancies were shaping in his mind as well.  She threw back her head, resting it on the chair behind.  There was complete happiness in the heart of her.  Every breath she took was an unspoken gratitude.

“Do you see your sister often?” she asked, as he handed her her cup of coffee.