He was so sure of himself, so fashionably blasé, so carelessly clever, so daringly frank, with all the finished air of the modern smart man, basking callously in the assured fact of his own brilliance and superiority. She knew that most women would envy her the attentions of such a one, and that his interest was undoubtedly a great compliment, as such compliments go; but tonight she found herself remembering all the other women who had reigned before her, all those who would presently succeed her, and she was conscious of an impatient disgust of all the shallowness and insincerety of the fashionable, successful man. “May I come in?” he asked, when they reached the flat, looking rather as if he were conferring a favour than soliciting one. “No; it is too late. Good-night.” “Too late!…” he laughed a little, and Lorraine felt her temper rising. “It is not exceptionally late, a little earlier than usual in fact. Why mayn’t I come in?” “Because I don’t want you,” she said coldly, and she saw him bite his lip in swift vexation. “I shall certainly not press you,” he retorted, and turned away. At the window of her drawing-room Lorraine lingered a few moments, gazin with a half-longing expression at the gleam of the lights on the dark flowing river. What was it that gave her that strange sense of heartache tonight? Why had her usual companions bored and irritated her? Why did Alymer Hermon’s fine, boyish, refreshing face come so often to her mind? She was certainly not in love with him. The mere idea was ridiculous, but it was equally certain that something about him had given rise to this vague unrest and longing. Was it perhaps that he called to her mind the youth she had never known, the young splendid, whole-hearted years, when it was so easy to believe and hope and enjoy that which life had never given her time for? True, the world was at her feet now, just as much as it would ever be at his, but with what a difference? For her, with the work and stain of the knowledge of much evil, and little good. For him, at present, with all the glorious freshness of the morning. She glanced back into the dim room, and among the shadows she saw him standing there again, towering up upon her hearthrug, before her hearth, with that youthful, frank assurance that was so attractive. Of a truth he was unspoilt yet, unspoilt and splendid as the dawn of the morning—but for how long? What would they make of him presently, the women of the world, who must needs worship such a man, and strew their charms before him. How was he to keep his freshness, when temptation hemmed him in on every side? She felt a sudden yearning as of hungry mother-love towards him. If he had been her son, her very own son, how she would have fought the whole world to help him keep his armour bright, and his colours flying high. And instead?...