“D’you hear what I say? I love you. I love you. I love you! From the first moment I saw you—in this room here—when I had come to make you tell me what you knew, from that moment, in that moment, I loved you.” He straightened himself and flung out both hands in a gesture almost Latin. “And, by God, can I be blamed? Can I be blamed for what I did just now, I say? For a hundred hours that were a hundred years I have been obsessed by you. Your hair—that black net of beautiful magic; your eyes—those great dark windows of your heart—they have been with me all those hundred hours that were a life-time. I have drowned my soul in those eyes of yours, Madonna Lucia. I have——” “Oh, stop, stop! What are you saying? This is all madness! Madness!” She was erect now, hands pressed to flaming cheeks. But he would not stop. “Oh, I haven’t finished!” He laughed—a wild sound. “Not yet. You say this is madness. What is it that has made me mad? It is you, you, you! You—your face, your body, all the unbelievable wonder of you! You say that I am mad. I say that I am sane. What could be saner than a man who tells you, as I have told you, that he loves you? For how could any man help loving you? Madness, the real madness, would have lain in not telling you.” He came close and caught her hands and carried them to his lips. Fingers, palms, wrists, he covered them with kisses. He straightened himself and released her. “And that,” he said wearily, “is that. I’m afraid I’ve grown dramatic. Forgive me.” She did not speak. Anthony looked down; he could not trust himself to meet those eyes. “And so now,” he said, “I’ll go.” He turned to the door. There came a voice from behind him. “But—but”—it stammered deliciously —“but please, I don’t _want_ you to go. Please will you come back.” 2 “On Saturday,” said Anthony in his lady’s ear—one chair held them both—“on Saturday we leave this England. Before I’m wanted at this unpleasant trial a fortnight or three weeks will elapse, if I know anything of English justice. In that time, lady, we will paint a girdle of colour about the earth—or some of it at least.” His clasp tightened about her shoulders. “Shall we? Shall we? I want to take you away, right away! I want to show you places you’ve never seen before though you may have been in them many times. Where shall it be? Paris? Brittany? Sicily? Madrid? Any’ll be a better heaven than is really possible.” To their ears came the hum of a car. As they listened, it grew louder; and yet louder. The car swept up the drive; halted. Down the stairs and past the door of the drawing-room came flying feet—Dora’s. “Archie. It’s Archie!” Lucia struggled to free herself. Anthony held her closer. “Never mind Archibald, Answer me, woman! Do we leave England on Saturday?” They heard the heavy front-door flung open; then a cry of delight; then silence. “Let me down! Oh, do let me down!” Lucia begged. “Tony, pleeease! They’ll be in here in a minute.”