She waited. Heaven knows what she waited for; but it did not come. The Imp of Mischance again scored his point. The man's mind was filled with the thoughts of another woman in her agony and of a crazy avenger coming with murder in his heart. He took her hand mechanically and raised it to his lips. Her yielding to the caress told him that he could throw his arms around her and treat her loverwise; her words told him that he ought to do so.
Yet he did not. For the moment he was passionless; and to men of his type is not given the power, possessed by men of imaginative temperament, of simulating passion. He forced a laugh.
“How do you think we might begin?”
She went on bravely with her self-imposed task of submission.
“I have heard that the man generally takes the initiative.”
He kissed her on the cheek. To do less would have been outrageous.
“I am glad you realise that I am in love with you, at last,” he said.
“Are you sure that you are in love with me?” she asked, the chill that had fallen upon her after the lack of response to her first whisper growing colder and colder.
“Of course I am.”
“That is all I wanted to hear. Good-night,” she said in an odd voice. She rose and put out her hand. Morland opened the door for her to pass and closed it behind her.