Suddenly she rose from her seat.  “I oughtn’t to say such things to you,” she declared in a voice freighted with self-accusation.  “Please forget it, Paul.  But it’s a thing you can understand.  You know the emptiness of a life that deals only with material things.”

He leaned forward with one knee on the bench and one hand on the fountain basin.  She was beautiful and his heart responded to her beauty’s challenge.

“To me you can say anything.  In me you will always find one who has no interest above your interests.”  He stopped and took her hands, but she shook her head in gentle negation, and, as he obeyed the unuttered mandate and let his own arms fall at his sides, she rewarded him with a smile that thrilled him like an embrace.

“Len is fine and big and everybody likes him,” went on the wife as though bent on being fair at all costs.  “Sometimes I think that’s the trouble.  It’s like being married to a standing army.  In times of peace one doesn’t need a standing army and in times of war it’s me that he makes war on.”

Loraine rose and started toward the house.  Paul followed, her, appraising her beauty with eyes into which a new interest had come.  In a moment she turned and halted so suddenly that the man found her face close to his as she spoke.  “I don’t know what’s the matter with me tonight.  I feel faint and giddy—­and full of undefined longings.  I sha’n’t sleep—­unless—­” she looked questioningly up at him—­“unless you will play for me, Paul.  Will you?”

Then she put out both hands and swayed unsteadily.  Paul caught her in his arms and pressed her to him.  The fragrance of her breath and the velvet coolness of the cheek he found himself kissing were details that brought an exquisite responsiveness to his senses.  He did not know whether she had fainted or was still conscious, for she rested there in his embrace limp and unresisting and wordless.

“What is the matter, dearest?” he whispered, when the first flush of exultation had passed.  “What is the matter?”

Slowly the dark fringe of lashes flickered up and the jet eyes gazed languorously into his own.  The blossom lips parted over the flashing whiteness of a smile.  Still she did not move except to close both her hands tightly on the arms that circled her.

“Paul,” she told him, “I ought to be unconscious or—­or break away, but I’m just—­just forgetting my captivity.”  Her eyes held his, drawing them hypnotically nearer and he lowered his face till his lips met hers and received from them the answer to his kiss.

Then Loraine Haswell drew away and straightened up.  She was a very lovely picture of contrite confusion as she put up both gleaming arms and rearranged the dark hair he had rumpled.  All the way to the house she was silent.

CHAPTER XII

An hour later Mrs. Haswell sat before the cheval glass of her dressing-table.  Her dark hair, loosened now from its coils, cascaded abundantly over her white shoulders.  She was thinking, and the charmingly chiseled lips and brow here in the privacy of her own room wore a rather calculating and somewhat satisfied smile.  No note of contrition or self-accusation marred their serenity.  A knock on the door interrupted her reverie and with a smothered exclamation of annoyance she glanced at the clock and rose.