They returned on the top of the omnibus, rather late, and on the way they spoke little. Now and then he glanced sideways at her and met her eyes and caught her smile, and felt content. At the terminus of the omnibus route, in the raging, busy precincts of the stations of Victoria, they alighted. He walked with her to her door in Victoria Street. “Your words have been singing in my ears,” said he: “‘I love big things.’ To me, to-day has seemed a big thing.” “And I’ve loved it,” she replied. “True?” “True.” She sped up to her room somewhat dazed, conscious of need to keep her balance. So much had happened in the last four-and-twenty hours. The shudder of the night had still horrified her flesh when she drew the young man out into the wide daylight and the open air; and now it had passed away, as though it had never been, and a new quivering of youth, taking its place, ran like laughter through her bodily frame and her heart and her mind. “H’m. Your outing seems to have done you good,” said the impassive Myra, letting her in. “My first day’s escape from a fœtid prison,” she said. “I suppose you know what you’re talking about,” said Myra. Olivia laughed and threw her arm round Myra’s lean shoulders. “Of course I do.” “He ain’t much to look at.” Olivia, flushing, turned on her. “I never knew a more abominable woman.” “Then you’re lucky,” retorted Myra, and faded away into her kitchen. Olivia, mirthful, uplifted, danced, as it were, into the sitting-room and began to pull off her gloves. Suddenly her glance fell on a letter lying on her writing table. She frowned slightly as she opened it, and as she read the frown grew deeper. It was from Bobby Quinton. What his dearest of dear ladies would think of him he left on the joint knees of the gods and of his dearest lady—but—but the wolves were at his heels. He had thrown them all that he possessed—fur coat, watch and chain, diamond studs, and, having gulped them all, they were still in fierce pursuit. In a fortnight would he have ample funds to satisfy them. But now he was at bay. He apologized for the mixture of metaphor. But still, there he was _aux abois_. Fifty pounds, just for a fortnight. Could the dearest of dear ladies see her way——-? She went to her desk and wrote out a cheque which she enclosed in an envelope. To save her soul alive she could not have written Bobby Quinton an accompanying line. CHAPTER IX