“I don’t know.  I walked down the street, hoping for a miracle.  Then I saw your key under the scraper.  I let myself in and waited.—­Jane, how wonderful you are!”

Unconsciously she had unfastened and thrown aside her furs.  Her arms and neck shone like alabaster in the shaded light.  She looked into his face and began to tremble a little.

“You ought not to have done this,” she said.

“Why not?” he pleaded.

“If any one had seen you—­if the servants knew!”

He laughed and stopped her mouth with a kiss.

“Dear, these things are trifles.  The things that count lie between us two only.  Do you know that you have been in my blood like a fever all day?  You were there in the House this afternoon, you walked the streets with me, you drew me here.—­Jane, I haven’t felt like this since I was a boy.  You have brought me back my youth.  I adore you!”

Again she rested willingly enough in his arms, smiling at him, as he drew near to her, with wonderful kindness.  The fire of his lips, however, seemed to disturb her.  She felt the enveloping turmoil of his passion, now become almost ungovernable, and extricated herself gently from his arms.

“Put my saucepan on the fire, please,” she begged.  “You will find some whisky and soda on the sideboard there.  Parkins evidently thinks that I ought to have a male escort when I come home late.”

“I don’t want whisky and soda, Jane,” he cried passionately.  “I want you!”

She rested her hand upon his shoulder.

“And am I not yours, dear,” she asked,—­“foolishly, unwisely perhaps, but certainly yours?—­They were all talking about you to-night at dinner and I was so proud,” she went on, a little feverishly.  “Our host was almost eloquent.  He said that Democracy led by you, instead of proving a curse, might be the salvation of the country, because you have political insight and imperialistic ideas.  It is those terrible people who would make a parish council of Parliament from whom one has most to fear.”

Tallente made no reply.  He was standing on the hearth rug, a few feet away from her, watching as she stirred her milk, watching the curve of her body, the grace of her long, smoothly shining arms.  And beyond these things he strove to read what was at the back of her mind.

“We must talk almost in whispers,” she went on.  “And do have your whisky and soda, Andrew, because you must go very soon.”

“It would disturb you very much if your servants were to know of my presence here?” he asked, in a queer, even tone.

“Of course it would,” she answered, without looking at him.  “As you know, I have lived, from my standpoints, an extraordinarily unconventional life, but that was because I knew myself and was safe.  But—­I have never done anything like this before in my life.”

“You have never been in the same position,” he reminded her.  “There has never been any one else to consider except yourself.”