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He stood by the window when she entered, but wheeled round at once with his back to the light. She felt that this did not make much difference. She knew exactly how he was looking–cold, self-contained, implacable as granite. She had seldom seen him look otherwise. His face was a perpetual mask to her. It was this very inscrutability of his that had first waked in her the desire to see him among her retinue of slaves.

She went forward slowly, striving to attain at least a semblance of composure. At first it seemed that he would wait for her where he was; then unexpectedly he moved to meet her. He took her hand into his own, and she shrank a little involuntarily. His touch unnerved her.

“You have slept?” he asked. “You are better?”

Something in his tone made her glance upwards, catching her breath. But she decided instantly that she had been mistaken. He would not, he could not, mean to be kind at such a moment.

She made answer with an assumption of pride. She dared not let herself be natural just then.

“I am quite well. There was nothing wrong with me last night. I was only tired.”

He suffered her hand to slip from his.

“I wonder what you think of doing,” he said quietly. “Have you made any plans?”

The hot blood rushed to her face before she was aware of it. She turned it sharply aside.

“Am I to have a voice in the matter?” she said, her voice very low. “You did not think it worth while to consult me last night.”

“You were scarcely in a fit state to be consulted,” he answered gravely. “That is why I postponed the discussion. But I was then–as I am now–entirely at your disposal. I will take you back to your people at once if you wish it.”

She made a quick, passionate gesture of protest, and moved away from him.

“Have you any alternative in your mind?” he asked.

She remained with her back to him.

“I shall go away,” she said, a sudden note of recklessness in her voice. “I shall travel.”

“Alone?” he questioned.

“Yes, alone.” This time her voice rang defiance. She wheeled round quivering from head to foot. “But for you,” she said, “but for your unwarrantable interference I should never have been placed in this hateful, this impossible, position. I should have been with my friends in London. It would have been my wedding-day.”

The attack was plainly unexpected. Even Caryl was taken by surprise. But the next moment he was ready for her.

“Then by all means,” he said, “let me take you to your friends in London. Doubtless your chivalrous lover has found his way thither long ere this.”

She stamped like a little fury.

“Do you think I would marry him–now? Do you think I would marry any one after–after what happened last night? Oh, I hate you–I hate you all!”

Her voice broke. She covered her face, with tempestuous sobbing, and sank into a chair.

Caryl stood silent, biting his lip as if in irresolution. He did not try to comfort her.

After a while, her weeping still continuing, he leant across the table.

“Doris,” he said, “leave off crying and listen to me. I know it is out of the question for you to marry that scoundrel whom I had the pleasure of thrashing last night. It always has been out of the question. That is one reason why I have been keeping such a hold upon you. Now that you admit the impossibility of it, I set you free. But you will be wise to think well before you accept your freedom from me. You are in an intolerable position, and I am quite powerless to help you unless you place yourself unreservedly in my hands and give me the right to protect you. It means a good deal, I know. It means, Doris, the sacrifice of your independence. But it also means a safe haven, peace, comfort, if not happiness. You may not love me. I never seriously thought that you did. But if you will give me your trust–I shall try to be satisfied with that.”