She held her hand out to him without a word, and he clasped it. In that clasp Constance realised that she had all and more of her old power over him. Thorndyke could not have said a word at first to save his life, but Constance, with equal feeling, had a woman’s glibness, and could have plunged into commonplaces on the spot. But she refrained, knowing that her silence was eloquent. She withdrew her hand lingeringly. Then Thorndyke saw the white cloak lying on the ground. He picked it up and held it wide for Constance, and when he enfolded her in the cloak she was enfolded for one thrilling, perilous instant in his arms. Another moment and she would be at his mercy. Constance, knowing this, and suddenly remembering the maid waiting for her, and possibly belated neighbours looking out of their windows, withdrew a little. This restored Thorndyke’s vagrant senses, and after a moment or two he said: “It does not seem--now--so long since we parted.” “It is very long; it is nearly eighteen years,” Constance replied. Her voice was the sweet voice of the far South, for her young eyes had first opened upon the blue waters of another lake than Como--Lake Pontchartrain. In her speech there were continual traces of her Louisiana birth--Thorndyke had ever thought her voice and her little mannerisms of language among her greatest charms--and he was confirmed in his belief at the first word she uttered. He said to her: “I did not know until yesterday that you were in Washington.” “I did not like to send you a card,” Constance replied. “You might have done so much.” “I do not know which of us is in the wrong,” she said--said it so deliberately that it might convey a thousand meanings. “But if you are waiting for me to ask you--come. Of course, I cannot ask you in now; if we were as young as we once were, it would be quite dreadful for us to be standing and talking as we are--but both being old enough to take care of ourselves, we have our liberty.” Love and hate are closely allied, and often reason alike from the same premises. As Thorndyke realised more and more that Constance Maitland still had power to disturb him powerfully he resented her ease and tranquillity--and aware of the lines in his face, conscious that he was growing bald, he felt injured at her continuing youth. Evidently, the recollections which had made him forswear love, forego wealth, and had turned him into a Congressional drudge, had left no mark on her. He took, at once, her hint to leave her, and said stiffly: “If you will give me your key----” Constance handed it to him; he went up the steps and opened the door. The gaslight fell full upon her, and it was as if with every glance they became more infatuated with each other and found it harder to part. “To-morrow,” said Thorndyke. “Yes; to-morrow,” Constance echoed, dreamily. Thorndyke banged the door to and literally ran down the street.