?'

'I suppose so--to any one who doesn't know. Well, where was I? Oh,
George as good as told me I was deceiving him, and he wanted to go away
without saying good-night. He hates standing a-tiptoe, but he must if I
won't sit down.'

Conroy would have smiled, but the chill that foreran the coming of the
Lier-in-Wait was upon him, and his hand closed warningly on hers.

'And--and so--' she was trying to say, when her hour also overtook her,
leaving alive only the fear-dilated eyes that turned to Conroy. Hand
froze on hand and the body with it as they waited for the horror in the
blackness that heralded it. Yet through the worst Conroy saw, at an
uncountable distance, one minute glint of light in his night. Thither
would he go and escape his fear; and behold, that light was the light in
the watch-tower of her eyes, where her locked soul signalled to his
soul: 'Look at me!'

In time, from him and from her, the Thing sheered aside, that each soul
might step down and resume its own concerns. He thought confusedly of
people on the skirts of a thunderstorm, withdrawing from windows where
the torn night is, to their known and furnished beds. Then he dozed,
till in some drowsy turn his hand fell from her warmed hand.

'That's all. The Faces haven't come,' he heard her say. 'All--thank God!
I don't feel even I need what Nursey promised me. Do you?'

'No.' He rubbed his eyes. 'But don't make too sure.'

'Certainly not. We shall have to try again next month. I'm afraid it
will be an awful nuisance for you.'

'Not to me, I assure you,' said Conroy, and they leaned back and
laughed at the flatness of the words, after the hells through which they
had just risen.

'And now,' she said, strict eyes on Conroy, '_why_ wouldn't you take
me--not with a million in each stocking?'

'I don't know. That's what I've been puzzling over.'

'So have I. We're as handsome a couple as I've ever seen. Are you well
off, lad?'

'They call me so,' said Conroy, smiling.

'That's North country.' She laughed again. Setting aside my good looks
and yours, I've four thousand a year of my own, and the rents should
make it six. That's a match some old cats would lap tea all night to
fettle up.'

'It is. Lucky Toots!' said Conroy.

'Ay,' she answered, 'he'll be the luckiest lad in London if I win
through. Who's yours?'

'No--no one, dear. I've been in Hell for years. I only want to get out
and be alive and--so on. Isn't that reason enough?'

'