‘What’s the matter?’ cried the girl, not quite knowing whether to be amused or alarmed.

But Mr. Keene was rushing from the room, and in an instant the house door sounded loudly behind him.  Alice stood disconcerted; then, thinking she understood, laughed gaily and ran upstairs to complete her packing.  In a quarter of an hour Mr. Keene’s return brought her to the drawing-room again.  The journalist was propping himself against the mantelpiece, gasping, his arms hanging limp, his hair disordered.  As Alice approached he staggered forward, fell on one knee, and held to her the paper she had mentioned.

‘Pardon—­forgive!’ he panted.

‘Why, where ever have you been?’ exclaimed Alice.

’No matter! what are time and space?  Forgive me, Miss Mutimer!  I deserve to be turned out of the house, and never stand in the light of your countenance again.’

’But how foolish!  As if it mattered all that.  What a state you’re in!  I’ll go and get you a glass of wine.’

She ran to the dining-room, and returned with a decanter and glass on a tray.  Mr. Keene had sunk upon a settee, one arm hanging over the back, his eyes closed.

‘You have pardoned me?’ he murmured, regarding her with weary rapture.

’I don’t see what there is to pardon.  Do drink a glass of wine!  Shall I pour it out for you?’

‘Drink and service for the gods!’

‘Do you mean the people in the gallery?’ Alice asked roguishly, recalling a term in which Mr. Keene had instructed her at their latest visit to the theatre.

‘You are as witty as you are beautiful!’ he sighed, taking the glass and draining it.  Alice turned away to the fire; decidedly Mr. Keene was in a gallant mood this evening; hitherto his compliments had been far more guarded.

They began to converse in a more terrestrial manner.  Alice wanted to know whom she was likely to meet at Wanley; and Mr. Keene, in a light way, sketched for her the Waltham family.  She became thoughtful whilst he was describing Adela Waltham, and subsequently recurred several times to that young lady.  The journalist allowed himself to enter into detail, and Alice almost ceased talking.

It drew on to half-past nine.  Mr. Keene never exceeded discretion in the hours of his visits.  He looked at his watch and rose.

‘I may call at nine?’ he said.

’If you really have time.  But I can manage quite well by myself, you know.’

’What you can do is not the question.  If I had my will you should never know a moment’s trouble as long as you lived.’

’If I never have worse trouble than going to the railway station, I shall think myself lucky.’

‘Miss Mutimer—­’

‘Yes?’

‘You won’t drop me altogether from your mind whilst you’re away?’

There was a change in his voice.  He had abandoned the tone of excessive politeness, and spoke very much like a man who has feeling at the back of his words.  Alice regarded him nervously.