The slashing of the rain upon the window-panes penetrated her consciousness. “What a wet night!” she murmured. “Yes, fiendish,” said Rotherby. “But I’ll soon have you out of it. You’re dead beat, aren’t you?” “Very, very tired,” she answered, and dropped back into silence. The car slid on through the night. They turned out of the glaring streets, and in the dimness Frances closed her eyes again. She did not want to talk; and Rotherby’s mood seemed to coincide with hers, for he sat in utter silence by her side. She was hardly aware that the car had stopped when suddenly he spoke. “You’ll come in here for a few minutes? I’ll tell the man to wait.” She roused herself. “In where?” He was opening the door. “It’s a half-way house where you can get some supper. I have ordered it specially for you.” “Supper!” She echoed the word, slightly startled. “Oh, really I don’t want any. I would rather go straight back.” He was already out of the car. He stood in the doorway, laughing. “Please don’t keep me here in the rain to argue! Let’s do it inside! I can’t let you go supperless to bed. It’s against my principles.” He took her hand with the words, and his own had an imperative touch to which she yielded almost before she realized it. “I really don’t want anything,” she protested, but she was getting out of the car as she spoke. “I never thought of such a thing.” “Nonsense!” said Rotherby. “Then it’s a good thing I’m here to think for you. I’ve got something rather interesting to tell you too. I’ve been saving it up all the evening. Confound this rain! Let’s get into shelter!” He spoke a word to the man, and then took her arm and led her swiftly up some steps to a lighted portico. They were actually inside before Frances found her breath to speak again. “What is this place?” “It’s a hotel of sorts,” he answered lightly. “I hope it meets with your approval. It’s somewhat after the French style. Come up in the lift!” She went with him, still possessed by that feeling of unreality which had held her tired senses in thrall throughout the evening. The flowers at her breast were crushed and faded, but the scent of them had all the sweetness of a dream. Certain words floated through her memory—had she heard them only that morning? “People like you and me can’t afford to waste any time over—dreams.” Ah well, the night would soon be gone, and she would wake in the morning to the old grim struggle. But till then—like the memory of the purple flower upon the wall in the days of her slavery—she would hold to her dream. She passed out of the lift with Rotherby, and he unlocked a door that led into a tiny hall. “Take off your cloak!” he said; then, as she fumbled, unfastened it himself and slipped it from her shoulders. She felt his eyes upon her again, and was stabbed, as a dreamer is sometimes stabbed, by a curious feeling of insecurity. Then he had turned away, and was taking off his own hat and coat.