"Well--the Martyrs’ Club will always find me." This was John’s club; that club, to become a member of which, he had been despoiled of the amount of a whole year’s rent. He was still staggering financially under the blow. "Do you live there?" she asked. "No--no one lives there. Members go to sleep there, but they never go to bed. There are no beds." "Then where do you live?" He turned and looked full in her eyes. If she were to have sympathy, if she were to have confidence and understanding, it must be now. "I can’t tell you where I live," said John. The clock of St. Mary Abbot’s chimed the hour of midday. He watched her face to see if she heard. One--two--three--four--five--six--seven--eight nine--ten--eleven--twelve! She had not heard a single stroke of it, and they had been sitting there for an hour. CHAPTER XV WHAT IS HIDDEN BY A CAMISOLE Add but the flavour of secrecy to the making of Romance; allow that every meeting be clandestine and every letter written sealed, and matters will so thrive apace that, before you can, with the children in the nursery, say Jack Robinson, the fire will be kindled and the flames of it leaping through your every pulse. When, with tacit consent, Jill asked no further questions as to where John lived, and yet continued clandestinely to meet him, listening to the work he read aloud to her, offering her opinion, giving her approval, she was unconsciously, unwillingly, too, perhaps, had she known, hastening towards the ultimate and the inevitable end. It must not be supposed that after this second interview in Kensington Gardens, when John had plainly said that he could not tell her where he lived, she had wilfully disobeyed the unyielding commands of her mother not to see him again. The fulfilment of destiny does not ask for disobedience. With the shuttles of circumstance and coincidence to its fingers, Destiny can weave a pattern in defiance of every law but that of Nature. Jill had said that morning: "Then we mustn’t meet again." "You mean that?" said John. "I can’t help it," she replied distressfully. "After all, I’m living with my people; I must respect their wishes to a certain degree. If you would only tell me----" "But I can’t," John had interposed. "It’s no good. It’s much better that I leave you in ignorance. Why won’t the Martyrs’ Club satisfy you? There are men at the Martyrs’ Club who live on Carlton House Terrace. That is a part of their martyrdom. Is it beyond the stretch of your imagination for you to suppose that I might have an abode in--in--Bedford Park or Shepherd’s Bush?"