After taking Mrs. Wallace home, James paced the streets for an hour in a turmoil of wild excitement. They had dined at the Carlton expensively, as was her wish, and then, driving to the Empire, James had taken a box. Through the evening he had scarcely known how to maintain his calm, how to prevent himself from telling her all that was in his heart. After the misery he had gone through, he snatched at happiness with eager grasp, determined to enjoy to the full every single moment of it. He threw all scruples to the wind. He was sick and tired of holding himself in; he had checked himself too long, and now, at all hazards, must let himself go. Bridle and curb now were of no avail. He neither could nor would suppress his passion, though it devoured him like a raging fire. He thought his conscientiousness absurd. Why could he not, like other men, take the brief joy of life? Why could he not gather the roses without caring whether they would quickly fade? "Let me eat, drink, and be merry," he cried, "for to-morrow I die!" It was Wednesday, and on the Saturday he had promised to return to Little Primpton. But he put aside all thought of that, except as an incentive to make the most of his time. He had wrestled with temptation and been overcome, and he gloried in his defeat. He would make no further effort to stifle his love. His strength had finally deserted him, and he had no will to protect himself; he would give himself over entirely to his passion, and the future might bring what it would. "I'm a fool to torment myself!" he cried. "After all, what does anything matter but love?" Mrs. Wallace was engaged for the afternoon of the next day, but she had invited him to dine with her. "They feed you abominably at my place," she said, "but I'll do my best. And we shall be able to talk." Until then he would not live; and all sorts of wild, mad thoughts ran through his head. "Is there a greater fool on earth than the virtuous prig?" he muttered, savagely. He could not sleep, but tossed from side to side, thinking ever of the soft hands and the red lips that he so ardently wished to kiss. In the morning he sent to Half Moon Street a huge basket of flowers. * * * "It was good of you," said Mrs. Wallace, when he arrived, pointing to the roses scattered through the room. She wore three in her hair, trailing behind one ear in an exotic, charming fashion. "It's only you who could think of wearing them like that." "Do they make me look very barbaric?" She was flattered by the admiration in his eyes. "You certainly have improved since I saw you last." "Now, shall we stay here or go somewhere?" she asked after dinner, when they were smoking cigarettes. "Let us stay here."