She did not stir. Very tenderly, lest he should wake her, he tucked her cloak closer, and buttoned it across her breast. By degrees he pulled the hood up over her ears and forehead. He stooped to kiss her, but drew back at the last moment To kiss her, sleeping, seemed too much like theft; “I love you, dearest,” he whispered. “I love you.” She made no answer. He drove on, dreaming, through the summer night. CHAPTER III--A SUMMER’S MORNING Stars were weakening in their shining. He wished she would wake up. It was still night, but almost imperceptibly a paleness was spreading. The sky looked mottled. As he passed through an anonymous, shrouded village a clock was striking. One, two, three! If he kept up this pace, they would be in London, at the latest, by seven. He began to calculate his respite. The boat-train left Euston at noon; if she allowed him to stay with her to the very last moment, he had--how much? About nine hours more of her company. But probably she wouldn’t let him stay with her. She’d have packing to do. This Fluffy person would want to carry her off and gossip about Horace--what he had said to her and what she had said to him, and how thoroughly justified she was in her treatment of him. And so--he widened his mouth bitterly--and so she would blow out of his life like thistledown. This splendid meeting, which had been the dream of his boyhood, would be wasted--cold-shouldered into oblivion by. trivialities. In his desperation he invented a dozen mad schemes for detaining her. It was on the cards that his car might break down. Unfortunately it showed every healthy sign of living beyond its reputation. Well, if it didn’t do it voluntarily, he might help it--might lose a spark-plug or loosen something. _He might_, but it wasn’t in him to do it. The moment he met her truthful gray eyes he’d be sure to shrive his conscience--then she’d detest him. No, if he was going to be a young Lochinvar, he had far better play the game boldly--swing off into side-roads and, when she wakened, explain to her laughingly: “You won’t catch your boat now, little Desire. I’ve made you lose it on purpose because--because I love you.” Humph! And she’d be amiable, wouldn’t she? Some men might be able to carry that off. He couldn’t. He’d feel a cur; he’d look it. So he drove on through the darkness, cursing at every new mile-stone because it brought him nearer to the hour of parting.