“Too many people to see us,” she said shortly. He had only one means of stopping her--to catch hold of the reins. Too risky! He gazed about him, wondering what to do. They were traversing the Embankment--it was empty save for outcasts huddled on benches like corpses. The night looked sodden. The river gleamed murkily. Lights on bridges, hanging like chains, shone obscurely. She was mocking him in low caressing tones. “You don't want to leave me? Say you don't.” The odd repetition of the question struck him. He had missed its first significance. It couldn't be! He pressed nearer, peering into her face. He caught the hungry pleading in her eyes--the mad defiance. “You mean----? You never meant----. Eve, you're too good a woman.” She halted the horses, and gazed down on him smilingly. She shook her head slowly, denying his assertion of her goodness. “You hadn't guessed?” “Guessed!” He drew himself upright. The passion in her voice appalled him. Her arms went about him; cold wet lips were pressing his mouth. “You dear boy-man! You dear boy-man!” He thrust her from him. He was choking. Her lips--they scorched him. He had seen in all women's faces the likeness to his mother's and Kay's. But now----. A bedraggled creature, in tattered finery, with a broken plume nodding evilly across her forehead, struggled from a bench, shuffled across the pavement and whined up at him. He took no notice. He tried not to believe what had been meant. Through their nervous silence trees shuddered; the muffled skirmish of the rain thudded. The golden woman was watching him. A gleam of hatred in her eyes at first--the reflection of his own loathing. Then, as pity replaced his loathing, a look of horror spread. She sank her face in her hands; her fingers locked and twisted. She looked like one who had become sane, and remembered her madness. “What am I? What have I done?” She whispered the questions over and over; the storm beat down upon her shoulders. He sat like one turned to stone, not daring to touch her, powerless to put his pity into words.---- And of this the bedraggled street-walker, whining up from the pavement, was sole witness. A policeman tramped heavy-footed out of the distance. “'Ere you, none o' that. 'Urry along.” This to the streetwalker. To the golden woman, “H'anything the matter with the 'osses, me lady?” She came to herself. The street-walker was limping into the shadows. Her eyes followed her with fascination. She felt for her purse; not finding it, she commenced unfastening the brooch that was at her neck. Seeing her intention, Peter put his hand in his pocket. She stayed him with an impatient gesture. Calling to the woman, she leant down from the box and said something. The policeman waited stolidly. He repeated his question, “H'anything the matter with the 'osses, me lady?” “No.” She swung the coach round. There was no explanation.