self-reproach."
He could, and felt himself more than justified in pressing her hand.

Presently there had been some suspense, for when the time came for him
to leave the flat, at half past four, Beatrice had peeped from the
window and imagined that she saw a man watching the house. Lionel
peeped too, but could see nothing. Nevertheless they had waited another
ten minutes, as long as they dared if he was to catch the first train.
But at length he resolved to risk a spy, and after a brief, tense, but
outwardly calm "good-by" he had left the house. By taking a cab he
reached Euston in time, and at last was established in the train. So far
as he knew, he had not been followed: the only stranger he had noticed
had been a man who was in the train before he was on the platform, so
from him there could be nothing to fear.

And now he was in The Happy Heart, resting after a dusty three-mile walk
from Shereling station, drinking good English beer, far from all thought
of Oriental craft and scheming. He was in Shereling, on the second stage
of his fond adventure. What was to be the first step?

In spite of the rest and beer he felt discontented, and glumly wished
that Beatrice were at hand. To what end? To advise, direct, console, or
soothe? He hardly knew, but darkly suspected that it was for the weaker
reason. Idly he allowed himself to remember the touch of her delightful
fingers, cool, nervous and alluring: the seduction of her hair, the
brilliant command of her eyes. But it was not these only that inspired
his grateful remembrance: it was also her lovely personality, her
courage, her charm, herself. Of course it could not be love; that was
absurd. It was a flame kindled by the sympathy of a comrade--the kind of
comrade he had never known. Possibly the fact that he had not enjoyed
any extensive woman-friendships during the recent years had made him
exaggerate her qualities: she might be rare, but could she be so rare as
he thought her? Supposing he met some other delightful woman soon, might
not the pleasant image of Beatrice lose something of its luster? He
shook himself impatiently; it was a foolish thought. Other women might
be delightful, charming, desirable, but there could only be a single
Beatrice. How pretty she was! How--and here the figure of Lukos beckoned
a grim warning: "It is time you put your shoulder to the wheel, my ...
_friends_!"

"All right, old chap--_all right_!" said Lionel petulantly to the shade.