This time her reproach was expressed by a glance.  “You are always wanted,” she said.

The words seemed to rouse him again to the shadowy self-distrust that the sight of her had lifted.

“It’s—­it’s delightful to meet you like this,” he began, “and I wish the meeting wasn’t momentary.  But I’m—­I’m rather pressed for time.  You must let me come round one afternoon —­or evening, when you’re alone.”  He fumbled for a moment with the collar of his coat, and glanced furtively upward towards Oxford Street.

But again Lillian smiled—­this time to herself.  If she understood anything on earth it was Chilcote and his moods.

“If one may be careless of anything, Jack,” she said, lightly, “surely it’s of time.  I can imagine being pressed for anything else in the world.  If it’s an appointment you’re worrying about, a motor goes ever so much faster than a cab—­” She looked at him tentatively, her head slightly on one side, her muff raised till the roses and some of the soft fur touched her cheek.

She looked very charming and very persuasive as Chilcote glanced back.  Again she seemed to represent a respite —­something graceful and subtle in a world of oppressive obligations.  His eyes strayed from her figure to the smart motor-car drawn up beside the curb.

She saw the glance.  “Ever so much quicker,” she insinuated; and, smiling again, she stepped forward from the door of the shop.  After a second’s indecision Chilcote followed her.

The waiting car had three seats—­one in front for the chauffeur, two vis-a-vis at the back, offering pleasant possibilities of a tete-a-tete.

“The Park—­and drive slowly,” Lillian ordered, as she stepped inside, motioning Chilcote to the seat opposite.

They moved up Bond Street smoothly and rapidly.  Lillian was absorbed in the passing traffic until the Marble Arch was reached; then, as they glided through the big gates, she looked across at her companion.  He had turned up the collar of his coat, though the wind was scarcely perceptible, and buried, himself in it to the ears.

“It is extraordinary!” she exclaimed, suddenly, as her eyes rested on his face.  It was seldom that she felt drawn to exclamation.  She was usually too indolent to show surprise.  But now the feeling was called forth before she was aware.

Chilcote looked up.  “What’s extraordinary?” he said, sensitively.

She leaned forward for an instant and touched his hand.

“Bear!” she said, teasingly.  “Did I rub your fur the wrong way?” Then, seeing his expression, she tactfully changed her tone.  “I’ll explain.  It was the same thing that struck me the night of Blanche’s party—­when you looked at me over Leonard Kaine’s head.  You remember?” She glanced away from him across the Park to where the grass was already showing greener.

Chilcote felt ill at ease.  Again he put his hand to his coat collar.