She did not notice if he acted well or ill when he saw the sight he had expected to see. “What are you going to do?” he asked. “I don’t know—don’t care.” She did not move her eyes from Wynne’s table, and after a moment a puzzled look came into her face. She had recognized his attitude. He always sat like that, with his head down and his fingers fidgeting, when he was irritated. But why now? A sudden insane desire possessed her to spring to her feet and cry aloud. Then Esme’s eyes, wandering once more toward the clock, met hers, and in an instant Eve smiled and bowed. Esme looked surprised, and Eve smiled again. “Some one over there knows me,” said Esme, “but I don’t know her. No, you mustn’t look, ’cos she’s too pretty.” Wynne turned slowly in the direction indicated, and saw. His napkin dropped to the floor, and unsteadily he rose to his feet. He rubbed one hand over his eyes as though to clear the vision. He took a few quick steps to the centre of the room—stopped—then came on again. And all the while Eve kept her eyes on his. Beside her table he stopped, and looked from one to the other, his mouth twitching and his face strangely white. “Yes—well?” he said, as if expecting they would be ready with explanation. “What are you doing here?” “Or you?” she answered. “What’s _he_ doing?” “Or _she_?” “Come on.” “Can’t you see?” “No.” “We said when we took the leap we’d take it together. We are.” Quiltan rose and moved a little away. “I shall want you,” whispered Wynne. “No, you won’t,” said Eve. Quiltan walked from the room. In the hall he waited indecisively. Then he remembered the flash of a light seen in Wynne’s eyes—a light of possession—wild, primal, outraged possession. He drew a quick conclusion. “I’m no good,” he thought. Then, turning to the porter, “I want that car of mine.” He waited in the porch until it came. Wynne jerked his head toward the door. “Out of this,” he said. “Can’t talk here.” He moved to the half-light of a deserted winter garden beyond the dining-hall, and suddenly he spoke, very fast and hoarsely: “You and that fellar—wasn’t true!” “Yes it was.” “God!” “Why not?” “God! But you’re mine.” “You say that.” “Mine.” “In what possible way?” “You are—you are! My woman—mine!” “And that other one?” “That! Nothing—it’s you—you!” He clenched and unclenched his hands. Then caught at a random hope: “You knew I was here—came because of that.” She shook her head. “You did.” “I came with him.” His hands fell on her shoulders and shook her fiercely. “For Christ’s sake! no, that’s not the reason!” The wild agony in his voice started the honest answer: “I came because of what you’re doing.” He stopped, caught his breath, took fresh fear, and sobbed out: “But—but you’ve never looked—like this before—you never looked like this for _me_.” “Did you ever want me to look like this for you? Did you ever—— Oh—oh—oh!” She turned, covered her eyes with her hands, and fell sobbing on to a chair.