hrough him as if he would repel her, but she did
not relax her hold or her gaze. She drew nearer to him, and inch by inch
his arms went round her. For a second they swayed close locked together.
As they fell into the deep arm chair her loose black hair uncoiled, and,
falling, buried their faces in its shadow.

CHAPTER XVI

THE months which followed emerged but slowly from blankness for these
two who had joined their lives together. Both had a difficulty in
realising, the woman that she had laid the coping stone of her career,
the man that he was happy as may be an opium eater. The first days were
electric, hectic. Victoria felt limp, for her nerves had been worn down
by the excitement and the anxiety of making sure of her conquest. The
reaction left her rather depressed than glowing with success. Jack was
beyond scruples; he felt that he had passed the Rubicon. He was false to
his theories and his ideals, in revolt against his upbringing. At the
outset he revelled in the thought that he was cutting himself adrift
from the ugly past. It was joyful to think that the pastor in his
whitewashed barn would covertly select him as a text. For the first time
in his fettered life he saw that the outlaw alone is free; both he and
Victoria were outlaws, but she had tasted the bitterness of ostracism
while he was still at the stage of welcoming it.

As the weeks wore, however, Victoria realised her position better and
splendid peace flowed in upon her. She did not love Holt; she began even
to doubt whether she could love any man if she could not love him, this
handsome youth with the delicate soul, grace, generosity. It was not his
mental weakness that repelled her, for he was virile enough; nor was it
the touch of provincialism against which his intelligence struggled. It
was rather that he did not attract her. He was clever enough, well read,
kind, but he lacked magnetism; he had nothing of the slumberous fire
which distinguished Farwell. His passion was personal, his outlook
theoretical and limited; there was nothing purposeful in his ideas. He
had no message for her. In no wise did he repel her, though. Sometimes
she would take his face between her hands, look awhile into the blue
eyes where there always lurked some wistfulness, and then kiss him just
once and quickly, without knowing why.

'Why do you do that, Vicky,' he asked once.

She had not answered but had merely kissed his cheek again. She hardly
knew how to