At five minutes to ten Simon Smith bade Theresa put on her hat. She said good-night, and again she knew that sense of power as Mr. Smith got out of the chair that dwarfed him, and Neville stopped in his light playing of the piano and gave her his good smile, and Morton looked deeply into her eyes as he opened the door. These were courtesies that men always paid to women, but she knew she had more from them, that they gave her of their minds because she demanded the gift, and she laughed as she ran up the stairs and fastened her hat to her shining hair, and settled her coat to the lines of her slim shape. She liked walking downstairs because there was something in the pointing of her toes that always pleased her, and to-night, because she was rejoicing in all the little skilfulnesses of her body, she went down slowly, pulling on her gloves, and, as she looked into the hall, she saw Morton looking up. "May I be allowed to see you home?" he asked, as she touched the bottom stair. "Please don't. I'm going in the carriage." "I know." His words were almost a reproof. "You won't forbid me?" She flashed her brightest, frankest look at him. "Why no!" He put the rug over her knees and took his seat beside her. She did not speak. She leaned back against the cushions, taking pleasure in the shadows of the bare trees, splashed across the pavements. He told her it was long since he had been to Radstowe, and the tone implied regret. She had made no answer before the horses stopped. "This is my home," she said. "So soon," he murmured. "It was absurd to have the carriage, wasn't it? Look, down there are the dock lights." They stood together on the pavement. "And there's a boat going out. You can see the light at her masthead. Oh--do you like it?" "It is very beautiful," he said, but the next moment his eyes were on her face. The house was very quiet when Theresa entered it. The hour was early, but, in the hall, the lowered gas told her that Uncle George and Bessie had already gone to bed. She was glad to be alone. She leant against the door, listening to the sound of the departing carriage; and when she could hear it no longer, she stretched up an arm and put out the light. The darkness fell on her warmly, clothing her. For a little while its thickness hid her thoughts and muffled the quick beating of her heart; but as the umbrella stand took shape, and the dining-room door became more than a pale blot, she had to face her mood. Something lighter than laughter seemed to be bubbling in her throat. She was sharply conscious of her body and its strength. She stood straight, tightening her muscles, throwing back her head. She found herself smiling, and at that, with a gesture half of denial and half of shame, she ran up the stairs; but her room was like a friend, and in its presence she was doubly aware of her own strangeness. Her mood was still to be faced, and she attempted no evasion.