Still it was deliriously sweet to think of, and he sat forward with his arms across his knees picturing the sacred moment. He thought how he would coax her, and how she would yield gradually, and then he would fold her in his arms and hold her tight against his heart while their lips met. He was roused by a step coming along the passage to his door, a hurried step, that had a suggestion of being agitated in some way. Then the door opened, and Gwen put her head in to see if he was there. Finding he was, she came in and shut the door quietly behind her, and something in the quiet of her usually radiant face was ominous. “What has happened between you and Paddy, Lawrence?” she asked, coming close up to him. “I thought everything was all right; that it was practically settled.” He clenched his hands suddenly. “It is. Why?” Gwen looked at him, and a wave of painful feeling passed over her face. “She has run away,” she said; “she went back to London alone last night.” Instantly, as in a flash, he understood. He did not speak, he did not utter a sound, but sat there in a silence that became terrible, his hands clenched and his mouth rigid. Gwen gave a little shiver. At last to break the awful tension she continued: “We called to see her this morning—Bob and I, and they told us she had crossed last night. They told us some sort of a tale about her uncle wanting her, but of course I didn’t believe it. I just pretended to, and then came back here feeling as if I’d had a shock.” Still he did not speak nor move, only staring with that fixed gaze into vacancy. If there was any difference at all, he was grinding his teeth together, to hold in check some inner tumult, rising momentarily higher. Gwen grew a little frightened. She had never seen him like this, never seen any man, in the first deadly throes of an anguish that was as life and death to him. “What are you going to do, Lawrie?” she said. “Perhaps, she has not really run away from you.” Still no word or sign. She put her hand on his shoulder to rouse him. “What are you going to do, Lawrie?” she asked again. “Go to the devil!” in a low, bitter voice of unmistakable meaning, and without raising his eyes. She slipped down on her knees beside him and clasped her hands round his arm. “Don’t, Lawrie—don’t,” she prayed, all her long affection for him crystallising, and grasping just all that his bitter words might mean. “I can’t bear you to take it like this. Oh! it is terrible, and just when I am so happy. I will go to Paddy, she will listen to me—I will make her see things differently. Lawrie, don’t look like that—she shall be yours, I promise you she shall. You shall have your happiness.” But he only shook her off roughly. “Leave me alone. You! you have got your happiness, what do you know about mine?” It was the first time in her life that he had spoken roughly to her, and Gwen shrank back almost as if she had been struck.