ut to you, my love, who could be strident? You are the very
home of peace. When I think of you I think of doves in a nest."

"You must think of me to-morrow, then," said Margery. He rewarded her
with a look.

Lucy, for her part, had another sort of danger in her mind. It seemed
absolutely necessary to her now to speak to Urquhart, because she had
a conviction that he and James had very nearly come to grips. Women
are very sharp at these things. She was certain that Urquhart knew the
state of her heart, just as certain as if she had told him of it. That
being so, she dreaded his impulse. She suspected him of savagery, and
as she had no pride where love was concerned she intended to appeal to
him. Modesty she had, but no pride. She must leave great blanks in her
discourse; but she trusted him to fill them up. Then there was
another difficulty. She had no remains of tenderness left for him: not
a filament. Unless she went warily he might find that out and be
mortally offended. All this she battled with while the good-nights to
Lancelot were saying upstairs. She kissed his forehead, and stood over
him for a moment while he snuggled into his blankets. "Oh, my lamb,
you are worth fighting for!" was her last thought, as she went
downstairs full of her purpose.

The card-players sat in the recess; the lovers were outside. Urquhart
was by himself on a divan. She thought that he was waiting for her.

With a book for shield against the lamp she took the chair he offered
her. "Aren't they extraordinary?" she said. He questioned.

"Who is extraordinary? Do you mean the card-sharpers? Not at all. It's
meat and drink to them. It's we who are out of the common: daintier
feeders."

"No," she said, "it's not quite that. James's strong point is that he
can keep his feelings in separate pigeonholes. I'm simply quaking with
fear, because my imagination has flooded me. But he won't think about
the risks he's running--until he is running them."

Urquhart had been looking at her until he discovered that James had
his eye upon her too. He crossed his leg and clasped the knee of it;
he looked fixedly at the ceiling as he spoke.

"I should like to know what it is you're afraid of," he said in a
carefully literal but carefully inaudible tone. He did that sort of
thing very well.

Lucy was pinching her lip. "All sorts of things," she said. "I suffer
from presentiments. I think that you or James may be hurt, for
instance--"

"Do you mea