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For answer she had lain in his arms, pulling his head down until their lips met again.

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The clock in the breakfast-room struck three as he had opened the front door carrying his shoes in his hand. He had returned home guiltily and with a heavy heart.

He had switched on the shaded light in the bedroom cautiously and had looked at Grace for some minutes with grave pity. Grace slept, or pretended to sleep, and he had seen that her pillow was damp. One hand, flung upon the pillow above her head, held a sodden, crumpled handkerchief.

He had been tempted to stoop and kiss her that he might see her smile in her sleep, as she had smiled many times when he had kissed her after working into the morning hours and she had retired early, but he had lacked the courage. He had lacked the courage to soil her. That was how he had felt about so small a thing.

With infinite caution, that he might not disturb her, he had taken his pyjamas from beneath his pillow, and had made his way to the single bed in the spare room, stealthily.

His heart had jumped painfully when he thought he caught the sound of a sob as he turned out his light.

On the following morning he had lain abed, afraid.

He had heard Grace rise and go out to the kitchenette, observing the morning routine as though nothing were altered. He had heard the familiar clatter of cooking utensils and the sizzling of the breakfast bacon, and a momentary hope had been born in him that she had found an excuse for his tardy return—the possible missing of the last tramcar to town and