In the eyes of any sane man his position was not worth an hour's purchase; yet in the blind self-confidence of the moment he would not have changed places with Fraide himself. The great song of Self was sounding in his ears as he drove through the crowded streets, conscious of the cool, crisp air, of Eve's close presence, of the numberless infinitesimal things that went to make up the value of life. It was this acknowledgment of personality that upheld him; the personality, the power that had carried him unswervingly through eleven colorless years; that had impelled him towards this new career when the new career had first been opened to him; that had hewn a way for him in this fresh existence against colossal odds. The indomitable force that had trampled out Chilcote's footmarks in public life, in private life--in love. It was a triumphant paean that clamored in his ears, something persistent and prophetic with an undernote of menace. The cry of the human soul that has dared to stand alone. His glance was keen and bright as he waited for a moment at the carriage door and took Eve's hand before entering the club. “You're dining out to-night?” he said. His fingers, always tenacious and masterful, continued to hold hers. The compunction that had driven him temporarily towards sacrifice had passed. His pride, his confidence, and with them his desire, had flowed back in full measure. Eve, watching him attentively, paled a little. “Yes,” she said, “I'm dining with the Bramfells.” “What time will you get home?” He scarcely realized why he put the question. The song of Self still sounded triumphantly, and he responded without reflection. His eyes held hers, his fingers pressed her hand; the intense mastery of his will passed through her in a sudden sense of fear. Her lips parted in deprecation, but he--closely attentive of her expression--spoke again quickly. “When can I see you?” he asked, very quietly. Again she was about to speak. She leaned forward, as if some thought long suppressed trembled on her lips; then her courage or her desire failed her. She leaned back, letting her lashes droop over her eyes. “I shall be home at eleven,” she said below her breath. Loder dined with Lakely at Chilcote's club; and so absorbing were the political interests of the hour--the resignation of Sir Robert Sefborough, the King's summoning of Fraide, the probable features of the new ministry--that it was after nine o'clock when at last he freed himself and drove to the “Arcadian” Theatre.