Gatliffe was bewildered; he knew he was acting in a most indiscreet manner, but had not the courage to break the spell that bound him.
The clock on the mantel-piece struck two.
“Goodness me—is it so late?” he ejaculated.
“It is late,” said his companion, “but what of that? The hours fly swiftly by when in the society of those we love.”
“But I really must be thinking of going.”
“Why so? You cannot reach Wood-green to-night, seeing that it is now morning, and what does it matter?”
“Upon my word,” said he, “I have been so charmed, so pleased with your society, that it appears I have forgotten all else.”
“And so you ought,” she cried, with another embrace.
“Ah,” he murmured, “I am powerless in your arms, and even unable to exercise any will of my own. This ought not to be.”
“Why not? I am pleased to think I have such power over you. Ah, Mr. Gatliffe, we are neither of us accountable to any one, and if—if—you find happiness in my society——” She broke off abruptly, and hid her head on his shoulder.