XXX

And so, once again, the woman conquered.  Whatever Eve’s intentions were, whatever she wished to evade or ward off, she was successful in gaining her end.  For more than two hours she kept Loder at her side.  There may have been moments in those two hours when the tension was high, when the efforts she made to interest and hold him were somewhat strained.  But if this was so, it escaped the notice of the one person concerned; for it was long after tea had been served, long after Eve had offered to do penance for her monopoly of him by driving him to Chilcote’s club, that Loder realized with any degree of distinctness that it was she and not he who had taken the lead in their interview; that it was she and not he who had bridged the difficult silences and given a fresh direction to dangerous channels of talk.  It was long before he recognized this; but it was still longer before he realized the far more potent fact that, without any coldness, without any lessening of the subtle consideration she always showed him, she had given him no further opportunity of making love.

Talking continuously, elated with the sense of conflict still to come, he drove with her to the club.  Considering that drive in the light of after events, his own frame of mind invariably filled him with incredulity.

In the eyes of any sane man his position was not worth an hour’s purchase; yet in the blind self-confidence of the moment he would not have changed places with Fraide himself.  The great song of Self was sounding in his ears as he drove through the crowded streets, conscious of the cool, crisp air, of Eve’s close presence, of the numberless infinitesimal things that went to make up the value of life.  It was this acknowledgment of personality that upheld him; the personality, the power that had carried him unswervingly through eleven colorless years; that had impelled him towards this new career when the new career had first been opened to him; that had hewn a way for him in this fresh existence against colossal odds.  The indomitable force that had trampled out Chilcote’s footmarks in public life, in private life—­in love.  It was a triumphant paean that clamored in his ears, something persistent and prophetic with an undernote of menace.  The cry of the human soul that has dared to stand alone.

His glance was keen and bright as he waited for a moment at the carriage door and took Eve’s hand before entering the club.

“You’re dining out to-night?” he said.  His fingers, always tenacious and masterful, continued to hold hers.  The compunction that had driven him temporarily towards sacrifice had passed.  His pride, his confidence, and with them his desire, had flowed back in full measure.

Eve, watching him attentively, paled a little.  “Yes,” she said, “I’m dining with the Bramfells.”

“What time will you get home?” He scarcely realized why he put the question.  The song of Self still sounded triumphantly, and he responded without reflection.