A glad light broke in his face. “By Jove, I--do you know, I'd like to stay? I--I really would, Mrs Desmond. Can you find a place for me?” His voice was eager, his eyes sparkling. “Yes,” said the mother quietly, almost serenely. “You shall have Lydia's bed, Frederic. She can come in with me. Yes, you must stay. Are you not our Frederic?” “Thank you,” he stammered, and his eyes fell. “I will telephone to Jones when the storm abates,” said Mrs Desmond. “Now get out of those coats, and--oh, dear, how wet you are! A hot drink for both.” “Would you mind asking Jones to send over something for me to wear in the morning?” said Frederic, grinning as he stood forth in his evening clothes. Ten minutes later, in a dressing-gown and bare feet, he sat with them before an open fire and sipped the toddy she had brewed. “I say, this is great!” Lydia was suddenly shy and embarrassed. “Good night,” she whispered. Her fingers brushed his cheek lightly. He drew her down to him and kissed her passionately. “Good night, my Lyddy!” he said softly, his cheek flushing. She went quickly from the room. Later he stood in her sweet, dainty little bedroom and looked about him with a feeling of mingled awe and wonder. All of her intimate, exquisite belongings, the sanctified treasures of her most secret domain, were all about him. He fingered the articles on her dressing-table; smelled of the perfume bottles and smiled as he recognised the sweet odours as being a part of her, and not a thing unto themselves; grinned delightedly at his own photograph in its silver frame that stood where she could see it the last thing at night and the first in the morning; caressed--aye, caressed--the little hand-mirror that had reflected her gay or troubled face so many times since the dear Christmas Day when he had given it to her with his love. He stood beside her bed where she had stood, and the soft rug seemed to respond to the delightful tingling that ran through his bare feet. Her room! Her bed! Her domain! Suddenly he dropped to his knees and buried his hot face in the cool white sheets and kissed them over and over again. Here was sanctuary! His eyes were wet with tears when he arose to his feet, and his arms went out to the closed door. “My Lyddy!” he whispered chokingly. Back there in the rose-hued light of James Brood's study Yvonne cringed and shook in the strong arms of her husband all through that savage storm. She was no longer the defiant, self-possessed creature he had come to know so well, but a shrinking, trembling child, stripped of all her bravado, all her arrogance, all her seeming guile. A pathetic whimper crooned from her lips in response to his gentle words of reassurance. She was afraid--desperately afraid--and she crept close to him in her fear. And he? He was looking backward to another who had nestled close to him and whimpered as she was doing now--another who lived in terror when it stormed. CHAPTER XIII