“You needn’t envy her for that.”

He had just spoken, when Noel saw a figure over by the door.

She jumped up, and said breathlessly: 

“Oh, here you are, Leila!  Father’s been here, and we’ve had some of your champagne!”

“Capital!  You are in the dark!”

Noel felt the blood rush into her cheeks.  The light leaped up, and Leila came forward.  She looked extremely pale, calm, and self-contained, in her nurse’s dress; her full lips were tightly pressed together, but Noel could see her breast heaving violently.  A turmoil of shame and wounded pride began raging in the girl.  Why had she not flown long ago?  Why had she let herself be trapped like this?  Leila would think she had been making up to him!  Horrible!  Disgusting!  Why didn’t he—­why didn’t some one, speak?  Then Leila said: 

“I didn’t expect you, Jimmy; I’m glad you haven’t been dull.  Noel is staying here to-night.  Give me a cigarette.  Sit down, both of you.  I’m awfully tired!”

She sank into a chair, leaning back, with her knees crossed; and at that moment Noel admired her.  She had said it beautifully; she looked so calm.  Fort was lighting her cigarette; his hand was shaking, his face all sorry and mortified.

“Give Noel one, too, and draw the curtains, Jimmy.  Quick!  Not that it makes any difference; it’s as light as day.  Sit down, dear.”

But Noel remained standing.

“What have you been talking of?  Love and Chinese lanterns, or only me?”

At those words Fort, who was drawing the last curtain, turned round; his tall figure was poised awkwardly against the wall, his face, unsuited to diplomacy, had a look as of flesh being beaten.  If weals had started up across it, Noel would not have been surprised.

He said with painful slowness: 

“I don’t exactly know; we had hardly begun, had we?”

“The night is young,” said Leila.  “Go on while I just take off my things.”

She rose with the cigarette between her lips, and went into the inner room.  In passing, she gave Noel a look.  What there was in that look, the girl could never make clear even to herself.  Perhaps a creature shot would gaze like that, with a sort of profound and distant questioning, reproach, and anger, with a sort of pride, and the quiver of death.  As the door closed, Fort came right across the room.

“Go to her;” cried Noel; “she wants you.  Can’t you see, she wants you?”

And before he could move, she was at the door.  She flew downstairs, and out into the moonlight.  The taxi, a little way off, was just beginning to move away; she ran towards it, calling out: 

“Anywhere!  Piccadilly!” and jumping in, blotted herself against the cushions in the far corner.