. Then she recovered herself.

"Why, certainly," she said. "I have no doubt that that will be part of
the programme. It generally is, I believe, in similar cases."

Vane's voice was very tender as he answered. "My grey girl," he
whispered, "it won't do. . . . It just won't do. If I believed that
what you say really expressed what you think, don't you know that I'd
leave the house without waiting for dinner? But they don't. You can't
look me in the eyes and tell me they do. . . ."

"I can," she answered defiantly; "that is what I think. . . ."

"Look me in the eyes, I said," interrupted Vane quietly.

Twice she tried to speak, and twice she failed. Then with a little
half-strangled gasp she turned away. . . . "You brute," she said, and
her voice was shaking, "you brute. . . ."

And as their host came down the stairs to join them, Vane laughed--a
short, triumphant laugh. . . .

Almost at once they went in to dinner; and to Vane the meal seemed to
be a succession of unknown dishes, which from time to time partially
distracted his attention from the only real thing in the room--the girl
sitting opposite him. And yet he flattered himself that neither his
host nor hostess noticed anything remarkable about his behaviour. In
fact he considered that he was a model of tact and discretion. . . .

Vane was drunk--drunk as surely as a man goes drunk on wine. He was
drunk with excitement; he was mad with the madness of love. At times
he felt that he must get up, and go round the table and gather his girl
into his arms. He even went so far as to picture the butler's
expression when he did it. Unfortunately, that was just when Mrs.
Sutton had concluded a harrowing story of a dead soldier who had left a
bedridden wife with thirteen children. Vane had not heard a word of
the story, but the butler's face had crossed his mental horizon
periodically, and he chose that moment to laugh. It was not a
well-timed laugh, but he floundered out of it somehow. . . .

And then just as the soup came on--or was it the savoury?--he knew, as
surely as he could see her opposite him, that his madness was affecting
Joan. Telepathy, the wiseacres may call it, the sympathy of two
subconscious minds. . . . What matter the pedagogues, what matter the
psychological experts? It was love--glorious and wonderful in its very
lack of restraint. It was the man calling the woman; it was the woman
responding to the man. It was freedom, be