“I ought to be back in Eastlake,” he confessed. “Don't think of that till it comes. Eastlake has had you a long time, compared with a day. But there are days and days.” They kissed each other. “I'll go now.” She kissed Lee. “Lunch will be at two.” He kissed her. He didn't leave the library until a maid announced that lunch was ready and the fact of her return. At the table they spoke but little; Lee Randon was enveloped in a luxurious feeling--where Savina was concerned--of security; there was no need to hurry; the day lengthened out into the night and an infinity of happy minutes and opportunities. They discussed, however, what to do with it. “I'd like to go out to dinner,” she decided; “and then a theatre, but nothing more serious than a spectacle: any one of the Follies. I am sick of Carnegie Hall and pianists and William's solemn box at the Opera; and afterwards we'll go back to that café and drink champagne and dance.” That, he declared, with a small inner sinking at the thought of Fanny, would be splendid. “And this afternoon--?” “We'll be together.” They returned to the library--more secluded from servants and callers than the rooms on the lower floor--where, at one end of the massive lounge, they smoked and Savina talked. “I hardly went to sleep at all,” she admitted; “I thought of you every second. Do you think your wife would like me?” She asked the vain question which no woman in her situation seemed able to avoid. “Of course,” he lied heroically. “I want her to, although I can't, somehow, connect you with her; I can't see you married. No doubt because I don't want to; it makes me wretched.” She half turned in his arms, pressed hard against him, and plunged her gaze into his. “It often seems strange to me,” he admitted, caught in the three-fold difficulty of the truth, his feeling for her, and a complete niceness in whatever touched Fanny. He attempted to explain. “Everything about my home is perfect, but, at times, and I can't make out why, it doesn't seem mine. It might, from the way I feel, belong to another man--the house and Fanny and the children. I stand in it all as though I had suddenly waked from a dream, as though what were around me had lasted somehow from the dream into life.” He repeated to her the process of his thoughts, feelings, at once so familiar and inexplicable.