ded me
off from the pastures of virtue."

"I know," she said softly. "It was Margaret's mother."

His voice rang out like a pistol-shot.

"How did you know that?"

She turned away from the rail and threw herself back in her chair. His
hand, however, she still kept in hers.

"Uncle Joe was Minister at Rio, you know, the year it all happened,"
she explained. "He told us the story years ago--how you came back
from Europe and found things were not just as they should be between
Margaret's mother and your partner, and how you killed your partner."

His nostrils quivered a little. One felt that the fire of suffering had
touched him again for a moment.

"Yes, I killed him," he admitted. "That is part of my creed. The men who
defend their honour in the Law Courts are men I know nothing of. This
man would have wronged me and robbed me of my honour. I bade him defend
himself in any way he thought well. It was his life or mine. He was a
poor fighter and I killed him."

"And Margaret's mother died from the shock."

"She died soon afterwards."

The stars grew paler. The passing vehicles, with their brilliant lights,
grew fewer and fewer. The breeze which had been so welcome at first,
turned into a cold night wind. She led the way back into the room.

"I must go," he announced.

"You must go," she echoed, looking up at him. "Good-bye!"

She was so close to him that his embrace, sudden and passionate though
it was, came about almost naturally. She lay in his arms with perfect
content and raised her lips to his.

He broke away. He was himself again, self-furious.

"Lady Cynthia," he said, "I owe you my most humble apologies. The evil
that is in me does not as a rule break out in this direction."

"You dear, foolish person," she laughed, "that was good, not evil.
You like me, don't you? But I know you do. There is one crime you have
always forgotten to develop--you haven't the simplest idea in the world
how to lie."

"Yes, I like you," he admitted. "I have the most absurd feeling for you
that any man ever found it impossible to put into words. We have indeed
strayed outside the world of natural things," he added.

"Why?" she murmured. "I never felt more natural or normal in my life.
I can assure you that I am loving it. I feel like muslin gowns and
primroses and the scent of those first March violets underneath a warm
hedge where the sun comes sometimes. I feel very natural indeed, Sir
Timothy."

"What about me?