For a moment they sat silent, then Lillian stirred.  “Won’t you smoke?” she asked.

Everything in the room seemed soft and enervating—­the subdued glow of the fire, the smell of roses that hung about the air, and, last of all, Lillian’s slow, soothing voice.  With a sense of oppression he stiffened his shoulders and sat straighter in his place.

“No,” he said, “I don’t think I shall smoke.”

She moved nearer to him.  “Dear Jack,” she said, pleadingly, “don’t say you’re in a bad mood.  Don’t say you want to postpone again.”  She looked up at him and laughed a little in mock consternation.

Loder was at a loss.

Another silence followed, while Lillian waited; then she frowned suddenly and rose from the couch.  Like many indolent people, she possessed a touch of obstinacy; and now that her triumph over Chilcote was obtained, now that she had vindicated her right to command him, her original purpose came uppermost again.  Cold or interested, indifferent or attentive, she intended to make use of him.

She moved to the fire and stood looking down into it.

“Jack,” she began, gently, “a really amazing thing has happened to me.  I do so want you to throw some light.”

Loder said nothing.

There was a fresh pause while she softly smoothed the silk embroidery that edged her gown.  Then once more she looked up at him.

“Did I ever tell you,” she began, “that I was once in a railway accident on a funny little Italian railway, centuries before I met you?” She laughed softly; and with a pretty air of confidence turned from the fire and resumed her seat.

“Astrupp had caught a fever in Florence, and I was rushing away for fear of the infection, when our stupid little train ran off the rails near Pistoria and smashed itself up.  Fortunately we were within half a mile of a village, so we weren’t quite bereft.  The village was impossibly like a toy village, and the accommodation what one would expect in a Noah’s Ark, but it was all absolutely picturesque.  I put up at the little inn with my maid and Ko Ko—­Ko Ko was such a sweet dog—­a white poodle.  I was tremendously keen on poodles that year.”  She stopped and looked thoughtfully towards the fire.

“But to come to the point of the story, Jack, the toy village had a boy doll!” She laughed again.  “He was an Englishman —­and the first person to come to my rescue on the night of the smash-up.  He was staying at the Noah’s Ark inn; and after that first night I—­he—­we—­Oh, Jack, haven’t you any imagination?” Her voice sounded petulant and sharp.  The man who is indifferent to the recital of an old love affair implies the worst kind of listener.  “I believe you aren’t interested,” she added, in another and more reproachful tone.

He leaned forward.  “You’re wrong there,” he said, slowly.  “I’m deeply interested.”

She glanced at him again.  His tone reassured her, but his words left her uncertain; Chilcote was rarely emphatic.  With a touch of hesitation she went on with her tale: