If he had loved her loyally through her married life, he loved her now with a new reverence. A new sacredness had arisen in his conception of his attitude toward her, such as had not hitherto invested his thoughts of women, and her influence had made itself felt in his work-a-day life. He had vowed he would never again plead in a criminal court, and had kept his vow. He was struggling to carve out a career in chancery practice. He had to supplement his income with irregular journalism. It was a hard battle; but he was not a beaten man. If he needed stimulus there were flashing goads in Irene’s eyes. On this evening he had arranged to dine with her at seven. It had just struck the hour when he arrived at her flat in Kensington. Jane, who opened the door, greeted him with a smile, hung up his overcoat, and showed him into the drawing-room. Irene threw down her book beside her on the sofa, and rose in her quick, impulsive fashion. “At last. You are two minutes late. They have been tedious.” He looked at her, his eyes strangely blinded. The gradation from her customary laughing tenderness into something tenderer had been imperceptible. Perhaps to her as much as to him. “A welcome like that is sweet after a day’s work,” he said. “And I haven’t seen you for forty-eight hours.” “Very dull ones, I assure you. I have striven to improve them. A harder task than the busy insect’s.” “Gathering honey out of blue-books?” He indicated a couple of government publications lying open, face downwards, on an arm-chair. “Horrid things!” cried Irene, pouncing on them and stowing them beneath a chiffonnier on the other side of the room. “I am tired of them. Let us be happy this evening, and forget their existence.” A glance of surprised questioning met her. Usually she was eager to talk of her pursuits. “I have a great need of happiness, you know, Hugh,” she continued, rather defiantly. “I could suck up an ocean of it, like an infinite sponge.” Then she laughed, and turning away to her writing table swept the loose sheets of manuscript lying on it into a drawer. “You see, I’m beginning to cultivate nerves.” He watched her somewhat anxiously. She was looking pale this evening, and her grey eyes were more lustrous than usual. A faint pearl-coloured gown unrelieved by a spot of brighter colour accentuated the delicacy of her face. “You are overworking yourself, Renie. Needlessly. You want a holiday--a change to sunshine and blue skies.” “I want my dinner,” said Irene. “Here it is.” Jane made formal announcement. They went into the little dining-room, where the table was daintily set with flowers, bright silver and glass. “You are wrong,” she said quietly, as she helped the soup. “I am not overworking myself. I sleep like a top and haven’t an ache or pain in my body.” “Still a change of air would do you no harm.”