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possession was saying that the sun made her sleepy, and she would go home.

That was the last of their morning excursions, but matters went very quickly afterwards. Tony went straight ahead, with no thought of consequences; it seemed unnecessary, as the pleasantest characteristic of Yolanda’s unpleasant husband was that he did not take any notice of her.

It may be observed that Yolanda has not been described. As a fact, Tony never analysed her, and as this book is mainly a record of his impressions, it is hard to arrive at a detailed portrait of her. She was not more than twenty-five, that he knew; she had been married at seventeen, her life had not been happy, nor was it without reproach. She was several thousand years older than Tony in most ways, and in different circumstances she might have been a very good woman. This last point did not concern him at present. It was more to the purpose that she was tall and splendid, with hair of a very dark brown, coils and coils of it; and that her eyes were like black pansies. Tony worshipped beauty.

It happened one night that she had allowed him to come and see her, that Tony was in the thick of his game, almost convinced and very nearly convincing, when Gasparri entered. Tony had never seen him in his own house before; his appearance just at that moment was sufficiently disconcerting. He was rather a good-looking man, with a heavy, flushed face. He had evidently been drinking, but he was not drunk. He flung the door open suddenly and swung across the room, ignoring Tony entirely, and, standing over Yolanda, he began to talk. At the first word Tony started to his feet.

“Stop!” he said. Yolanda leaned back among her crimson cushions with an immovable face, and Gasparri went on. . . .