birth of a new day, and wondered what it held in store for him.
But over there a man is a fatalist--his part is allotted to him, and he
can but tread the beaten path blindly. Whereas here, however much one
is the sport of the gods that play, there comes a time when one must
play oneself. Incidentally that is the part of the performance which
amuses the gods. They plot their fantastic jig-saws; but one of the
rules is that the pieces must move themselves. And of their kindness
they let the pieces think they control the movement. . . .

Suddenly Vane turned round, and crossed to the girl. He picked her up
in his arms, and having silently opened the door he carried her to her
room.

Utterly exhausted and worn out, she barely woke up even when he placed
her in her own cold bed. Her eyes opened drowsily once, and he bent
over and kissed her gently.

"Little Joan," he whispered. "Dear little grey girl."

But she did not hear him. With a tired sigh she had drifted on to
sleep again.

CHAPTER XVI

When Joan woke the next morning it was with the consciousness that
something had happened. And then the events of the last night flashed
over her mind, and for a while she lay very still. The details seemed
all hazy and blurred; only the main fact stood out clear and dominant,
the fact that she had gone to his room.

After that things got a bit confused. She had a recollection of being
carried in his arms, of his bending over her and whispering "Little
Joan," of his kissing her--but it all seemed merged in an exquisite
dream.

"Oh! my dear," she whispered, while the love-light shone in her grey
eyes; "but what a dear you are. . . ."

By the very nature of things she was incapable of realising the
tremendous strain to which she had subjected him; it only seemed to her
that there was a new and wonderful secret to share with him. And to
the girl, still under the influence of her mood of the night before,
the secret forged the final link in the chain. She wondered how she
could ever have hesitated; it all seemed so very easy and obvious now.

Baxter, Blandford--what did anything matter? She had gone to Derek;
the matter was decided. . . .

Her maid came into the room, and advanced cautiously to the bed.

"Ah! but Mam'selle es awake," she said. "And ze tea, mon Dieu, but it
es quite cold."

"What time is it, Celeste?" asked Joan.

"Nine o'clock, Mam'selle. I have ze dejeuner outside. And a note fro