“Please. I said--and did--a few mad things that day we spent together. It was to be an uncounted day, you know, and--oh, well, the air of the Alps is heady! I want you to forgive me--and to blot out all remembrance of it.” He seemed to speak with some effort, yet each word was uttered deliberately, searing its way into her consciousness like red-hot iron. The curt, difficultly spoken sentences could only signify one thing--that he had meant nothing, not even good, honest comradeship, that day at Montavan. He had merely been amusing himself with a girl whom he never expected to meet again, and now that circumstances had so unexpectedly brought them together he was clearly anxious that she should be under no misapprehension in the matter. Jean’s pride writhed beneath the insult of it. It was as though he feared she might make some claim upon his regard and had hastened to warn her, almost in so many words, not to set a fictitious value upon anything that had occurred between them. The glamour was indeed torn from her stolen day on the mountains! The whole memory of it, above all the memory of that pulsing moment of farewell, would henceforth he soiled and vulgarised--converted into a rather sordid little episode which she would gladly have blotted out from amongst the concrete happenings of life. The feminine instinct against self-betrayal whipped her into quick speech. “I’ve no wish to forget that you practically saved my life,” she said. “I shall always”--lightly--“feel very much obliged for that.” “You exaggerate my share in the matter,” he replied carelessly. “You would have extricated yourself from your difficulties without my assistance, I have no doubt. Or, more truly”--with a short laugh--“you would never have got into them.” He said no more, but let out the car and they shot forward into the gathering dusk. Presently they approached a pair of massive iron gates admitting to the manor drive, and as these were opened in response to a shrill hoot from Tormarin’s horn the car swung round into an avenue of elms, the bare boughs, interlacing overhead, making a black network against the moonlit sky. Still in silence they approached the house, its dim grey bulk, looming indeterminately through the evening mist, studded here and there with a glowing shield of orange from come unshaded window, and almost before Tormarin had pulled up the car, the front door flew open and a wide riband of light streamed out from the hall behind. Jean was conscious of two or three figures grouped in the open doorway, dark against the welcoming blaze of light, then one of them detached itself from the group and hastened forward with outstretched hands. “Here you are at last!”