case, and let the beams draw colour from those stones.  Yes, they were of the first water!  But, at the hard closing snap of the case, another cold shiver ran through his nerves; and he walked on faster, clenching his gloved hands in the pockets of his coat, almost hoping she would not be in.  The thought of how mysterious she was again beset him.  Dining alone there night after night—­in an evening dress, too, as if she were making believe to be in society!  Playing the piano—­to herself!  Not even a dog or cat, so far as he had seen.  And that reminded him suddenly of the mare he kept for station work at Mapledurham.  If ever he went to the stable, there she was quite alone, half asleep, and yet, on her home journeys going more freely than on her way out, as if longing to be back and lonely in her stable!  ‘I would treat her well,’ he thought incoherently.  ‘I would be very careful.’  And all that capacity for home life of which a mocking Fate seemed for ever to have deprived him swelled suddenly in Soames, so that he dreamed dreams opposite South Kensington Station.  In the King’s Road a man came slithering out of a public house playing a concertina.  Soames watched him for a moment dance crazily on the pavement to his own drawling jagged sounds, then crossed over to avoid contact with this piece of drunken foolery.  A night in the lock-up!  What asses people were!  But the man had noticed his movement of avoidance, and streams of genial blasphemy followed him across the street.  ‘I hope they’ll run him in,’ thought Soames viciously.  ’To have ruffians like that about, with women out alone!’ A woman’s figure in front had induced this thought.  Her walk seemed oddly familiar, and when she turned the corner for which he was bound, his heart began to beat.  He hastened on to the corner to make certain.  Yes!  It was Irene; he could not mistake her walk in that little drab street.  She threaded two more turnings, and from the last corner he saw her enter her block of flats.  To make sure of her now, he ran those few paces, hurried up the stairs, and caught her standing at her door.  He heard the latchkey in the lock, and reached her side just as she turned round, startled, in the open doorway.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, breathless.  “I happened to see you.  Let me come in a minute.”

She had put her hand up to her breast, her face was colourless, her eyes widened by alarm.  Then seeming to master herself, she inclined her head, and said:  “Very well.”

Soames closed the door.  He, too, had need to recover, and when she had passed into the sitting-room, waited a full minute, taking deep breaths to still the beating of his heart.  At this moment, so fraught with the future, to take out that morocco case seemed crude.  Yet, not to take it out left him there before her with no preliminary excuse for coming.  And in this dilemma he was seized with impatience at all this paraphernalia of excuse and justification.  This was a scene—­it could be nothing else, and he must face it.  He heard her voice, uncomfortably, pathetically soft: