During the first few moments of the drive there was silence.  To Loder there was a strange, new sensation in this companionship, so close and yet so distant.  He was so near to Eve that the slight fragrant scent from her clothes might almost have belonged to his own.  The impression was confusing yet vaguely delightful.  It was years since he had been so close to a woman of his own class—­his own caste.  He acknowledged the thought with a curious sense of pleasure.  Involuntarily he turned and looked at her.

She was sitting very straight, her fine profile cut clear against the carriage window, her diamonds quivering in the light that flashed by them from the street.  For a space the sense of unreality that had pervaded his first entrance into Chilcote’s life touched him again, then another and more potent feeling rose to quell it.  Almost involuntarily as he looked at her his lips parted.

“May I say something?” he asked.

Eve remained motionless.  She did not turn her head, as most women would have done.  “Say anything you like,” she said, gravely.

“Anything?” He bent a little nearer, filled again by the inordinate wish to dominate.

“Of course.”

It seemed to him that her voice sounded forced and a little tired.  For a moment he looked through the window at the passing lights; then slowly his gaze returned to her face.

“You look very beautiful to-night,” he said.  His voice was low and his manner unemotional, but his words had the effect he desired.

She turned her head, and her eyes met his in a glance of curiosity and surprise.

Slight as the triumph was, it thrilled him.  The small scene with Chilcote’s valet came back to him; his own personality moved him again to a reckless determination to make his own voice heard.  Leaning forward, he laid his hand lightly on her arm.

“Eve,” he said, quickly—­“Eve, do you remember?” Then he paused and withdrew his hand.  The horses had slackened speed, then stopped altogether as the carriage fell into line outside Bramfell House.

XIV

Loder entered Lady Bramfell’s feeling far more like an actor in a drama than an ordinary man in a peculiar situation.  It was the first time he had played Chilcote to a purely social audience, and the first time for many years that he had rubbed shoulders with a well-dressed crowd ostensibly brought together for amusement.  As he followed Eve along the corridor that led to the reception-rooms he questioned the reality of the position again and again; then abruptly, at the moment when the sensation of unfamiliarity was strongest, a cheery voice hailed him, and, turning, he saw the square shoulders, light eyes, and pointed mustache of Lakeley, the owner of the ‘St. George’s Gazette’.

At the sight of the man and the sound of his greeting his doubts and speculations vanished.  The essentials of life rose again to the position they had occupied three weeks ago, in the short but strenuous period when his dormant activities had been stirred and he had recognized his true self.  He lifted his head unconsciously, the shade of misgiving that had crossed his confidence passing from him as he smiled at Lakeley with a keen, alert pleasure that altered his whole face.