traint marked that last dinner with Eve de Montalais. They were
alone. Louise was dining by the bedside of Madame de Sevenie, who
remained indisposed, a shade more so than yesterday. The ill health of
this poor lady, indeed, was the excuse Eve had given for putting off
her trip to Paris.

Their talk was framed in stilted phrases, inconsecutive. They dared not
converse naturally, each fearing to say too little or too much. For the
memory of that surge of emotion, transient though it had been, in which
their discussion had culminated, that afternoon, stood between them
like a warning ghost, an implacable finger sealing its lips and theirs
with the sign of silence.

But talk they must, for the benefit of the servants, and talk they did
after an uneasy fashion, making specious arrangements for Lanyard's
departure on the morrow, when Eve was to drive him to Millau to catch
the afternoon rapide for Paris.

Nor was it much better after dinner in the drawing-room. Consciousness
of each other and consciousness of self, as each fought to master the
emotions inspired by thoughts of their near parting, drove both into
the refuge of a dry, insincere, cool impersonality. Lanyard
communicated nothing of his plans, though aware his failure to do so
might be misconstrued, instil an instinctive if possibly unconscious
resentment to render the situation still more difficult. The truth was,
he could barely trust himself to speak lest mere words work on his
guard like tiny streams that sap the strength of the dike till it
breaks and looses the pent and devastating seas.

At half past nine, ending a long silence, Lanyard sat forward in his
chair, hesitated, and covered his hesitation by lighting a cigarette.

"I must go now," he said, puffing out the match.

He was aware of her almost imperceptible start of surprise.

"So soon?" she breathed.

"The moon rises not long after ten, and I want to get away without
being seen either by the servants or by--anybody who might happen to be
passing. You understand."

She nodded. He lingered, frowning at his cigarette.

"With permission, I will write..."

"Please."

"When I have anything to report."

She turned her head full face to him, letting him see her fluttering,
indulgent smile.

"You must wait for that?"

"Perhaps," he faltered--"at least, I hope--it won't be long."

"You must wait for that?"

"Perhaps," he faltered--"at least, I hope--it won't be long." "I shall
be waitin