Jenny, buried in a big arm-chair, dozed away the afternoon as usual and after tea sat staring into the fire, while Danby from the hearthrug assiduously stroked the slim white hand that drooped listlessly over an arm of the chair. A steady drench of rain had set in with the dusk, and, being close under the roof, they could hear the gurgle and hiss of the flooded gutters. Neither of them made a move to turn on the electric light or stir the lowering fire to flame. Danby even denied himself three or four cigarettes so that the magnetic current of sensuousness should not be interrupted. Inch by inch he drew closer to Jenny, sliding noiselessly over the thick fur of the rug. He was now near enough to kiss slowly her bare forearm and separately each supple finger. Jenny leaned back unconscious of him, though remotely pleased by his kisses, in her dull hell of memory where repressed inclinations smoldered like the fire on which her eyes were fixed. What a fool she had been for the sake of a silly powerlessness to take the plunge. It was bound to be taken in the end--with someone. But Maurice was a rotter, and would he after all have been worthy of the ultimate sacrifice? Would he not have tired and put her under an even more severe humiliation? Toys were good enough for Maurice. It was ridiculous to make life a burden for the sake of one man. Twenty-two next October. How quickly the years were flying. So, in a maze of speculation, regret and resolution, Jenny lay back in the deep arm-chair while Jack Danby drugged her with kisses. She drew her arm away at last, feeling hungry in a vague way. "What's the time?" she asked, yawning. "It must be after nine." "Good lord, and we haven't had supper yet." "Are we going to wait for Irene?" he inquired. "Not for supper. She is late. I won't half tell her off." Danby had risen from the hearth-rug and turned on the light. Jenny was poking the fire vigorously. "I've got _pate de foie gras"_ he informed her. "Ugh, what horrible-looking stuff," she said. "Don't you like it?" "I never tried it." "Try now," Danby urged. "No, thanks, it looks like bad butter." The rain increased in volume as the evening wore on. Still Irene did not come. It struck eleven o'clock, and Jenny said she could wait no longer. "I'll get a cab," said Danby. "No; don't leave me here all alone," cried Jenny. "Why should you go home at all to-night?" Danby breathed in a parched whisper. Jenny pressed her face against the jet-black window-pane and suddenly away beyond Westminster there was a low bourdon of thunder. "Stay with me," pleaded Danby; "it's such a night for love." "Who cares?" murmured Jenny. "I've only myself to think about." "What did you say?" he asked. "Nothing." "But you will stay?" She nodded. Chapter XXIX: _Columbine at Dawn_