d. And with a short, exultant laugh Vane drew up an easy chair
to the fire and lit a cigarette. He heard Mr. Sutton pass along the
passage and go to his own room; and then gradually the house grew
still. Outside the night was silent, and once he rose and went to the
window. He stood there for a time staring out into the darkness, with
his hands thrust deep in his pockets; then he returned to his chair
again. He felt no wish to go to bed; he just wanted to sit and think
of his girl.

Three days is a long time when one is at the beginning of it; and in
all probability they would give him an extension. Three days with
Joan--three whole complete days. . . .

They would go for a few long glorious tramps over the Downs, where the
turf is springy to the foot, and the wind comes straight from the grey
Atlantic, and the salt tang of it makes it good to be alive. And then
one afternoon when they got home Joan would find a telegram awaiting
her to say that coal had been discovered at Blandford, and did she
think it would matter having the main shaft opening into the
dining-room?

Something like that was bound to happen, and even if it didn't things
would be no worse off than they were now. And in the meantime--three
days. . . . For Vane had passed beyond the thinking stage; he was
incapable of arguing things out or calling a halt even if he wanted to.
It seemed to him that everything was so immeasurably little compared
with the one great fact that Joan loved him.

He whistled softly under his breath, and started to unlace his shoes.
"We'll cheat 'em yet," he muttered, "some old how." And even as he
spoke he stiffened suddenly and stared at the door. On it had come two
low faltering knocks. . . .

For a moment he remained where he was, incapable of movement, while his
cigarette, bent in two and torn, fell unheeded in the grate. Every
drop of blood in his body seemed to stand still, and then to pound
madly on again, as the certainty of who was outside came to him. Then
with two great strides he crossed to the door, and opened it. . . .

"Joan," he whispered, "my dear. . . ."

She was in a silk dressing-gown, and he could see the lace of her
nightdress through the opening at her neck. Without a word she passed
by him into the room, and crouched over the fire; while Vane, with his
back to the door, stood, watching her with dilated eyes.

"Lock the door." He heard her words come faintly through the roaring
in h