It had turned cold; they drove to a hotel, went to a warm room, its stiffness tempered by huge bowls of flowers, supper laid on the table.
The waiter discreetly presumed that they would ring if he was required; he left them with a faintly un-waiter-like grin.
Estelle was not hungry; she pecked at aspic and foie gras, but drank champagne; glad as the sparkling wine banished care, did its allotted work.
It was peaceful in there; the scent of the flowers filled the room; the fire burnt brightly.
They left the half-eaten meal and came to the glow of the blazing coals.
"Estelle!" The last strand snapped. Bertie's arms closed round the girl, crushed her supple body to his, kissed her with the reverence of great passion. "Estelle!" he said. "You are spring—turn to me."
The lips that answered his, the arms that clung about his neck told him she loved him.
Forgetting the barrier of custom and law, they snatched bliss from the greedy gods. Yet, even as he held her, Bertie knew this was no creature of light intrigues; she might come to him in a glory of sacrifice, to be his for all time; she would not sink to the furtiveness of secret meetings, to the sharing of her man with another home.
He put Estelle in a big chair, knelt before her, told her all the folly which is never old, which the great master Passion can tune anew each time. And what were they to do? Part—and let the world rob them of their joy, or....
"It must be all or nothing now," he said hoarsely. "We could meet so often, little sweetheart—be so happy."