For Patricia O'Neill was proud of her twenty-one years, and the glorious vigour of her limbs, and the resilient stretch of her brain; and of her power to shape her life obedient to those empyreal flashes of inspiration that burst upon her out of the angry clouds. Too proud to yield up one jot of longing to a man who was oblivious of her. She had heard and read of the divinity of sacrifice, of pride venting itself in profoundest humility—but at twenty-two this creed was too meek and too quenched of colour for her acceptance. And not all the indignity of Dacres' far-away gaze into the black dripping glooms, as the train pounded its way from Folkestone to Charing Cross, could render her less proud. She braced her overtaxed nerves to meet the last demands upon them ... for she knew well enough whither Upton was bound that night—-that night still—after he had got rid of her. His adventure did not end simultaneously with hers....
The same cynical destiny as had attended them all along, had provided they should be alone in their first-class carriage. If their truancy had fulfilled the promise of its first conception, then in what grateful mood would they now be giving thanks for their isolation ... isolation that permitted her to lie along one of the seats, her head drawn down to his shoulder; his hard sinewy hands straying very softly indeed over her hair and her cheeks and her throat ... lulled tender mood of retrospect ... naughty children returning home, too tired, too happy to care if punishment await them....
"Kiss me, Patricia—we're almost there. I can see the lights. It's been a good time.... Kiss me, Patricia—dear...."
Had he really said it? Or had she been dozing? She started to an upright position in her corner; her head had lain against the window-blind. And Dacres had not moved from his seat at the far end of the carriage. He was still looking steadily out of the window, and he was faintly smiling ... boat and train had been punctual; and already he saw the blurred points of light that betokened London....
He had told her he would be with her on the evening of December the thirtieth, at a quarter to ten. He would be true to his word.
CHAPTER III
"About that book you sent us up a few days ago, Temple—let me see—'The Reverse of the Medal,' wasn't it?"
"Yes, Mr. Alexander."
"You thought very highly of it?"
"Very highly indeed," replied Gareth.