It was soon after he had read this that he came home earlier than usual and let himself into his little flat. The day had been successful, a new device in the engine was working well and the company had had a large order from abroad. And as usual, with the prospect of success had come to him a bitter sense of the emptiness of the future. He was thinking of Christine, and when he turned the switch of the electric light, there she was. She was sitting in a large shabby armchair, drawn close to the window, so that she could look out at the river. She had taken off her hat, and her hair shown particularly golden and her eyes looked brightly blue in the sudden glare of light. “You’re dreadfully late,” she said, quite as if she had charge of his comings and goings. “I’ve been here hours and hours and hours.” Now that he actually saw her before him, it was neither love nor hate that he felt, but an undefinable and overmastering emotion that seemed to petrify him, so that he stood there quite silent with his hand on the switch. “Well,” she went on, “aren’t you surprised to see me?” He bent his head. “Can you guess why I have come?” He shook his head. She looked a little distressed at this. “Then perhaps I’ve made a mistake in coming.” At this he spoke for the first time. “I should say that the chances were that you had,” he said, and his tone was not agreeable. The edge of his words seemed to give her back all her confidence. “Now, how strange that you should not know why I’m here! I’ve come, of course, to return your pearls.” He saw now, between the laces of her summer dress that she was wearing them. “In common honesty I could hardly keep them.” She put up her hands to the clasp, but it did not yield at once to her touch, and she looked up at him. “I think you’ll have to undo it for me,” she murmured, with bent head. “I don’t want them,” he answered, with temper. “I never want to see them again.” “Nor me, either, perhaps?” “Nor you either--perhaps.” She rose and approached him. “I’ll keep them on one condition, Max--that you take permanent charge of both of us.” Then seeing that she had produced no change in his expression, she came very close indeed. “There’s no use in looking like a stone image, Max. It won’t save you.” “Save me! And what is my danger?” “I’m your danger, my dear.” “Not any longer, Christine.” “You mean you don’t love me any more?” “Not a bit.” At this she shifted her ground with admirable ease. “In that case,” she said cheerfully, “we can talk the whole subject over quite dispassionately.” “Quite, if there were anything to talk over.” “Only first,” she said, “aren’t you going to ask me to stay to dinner? It’s very late, you know--” “I don’t dine here,” he answered, “and I doubt if you would eat very much at the restaurant where I take my meals.” “Well, would you mind my going into the kitchen and making myself a cup of tea?”