And the next moment, on the stairs, she was beside him again, slender, pale, close to his shoulder, descending the great staircase beside him, one white-gloved hand resting lightly within his arm.

Neither spoke.  At the cloak-room she turned and looked at him—­stood a moment slowly tearing the orchids from her breast and dropping the crushed petals underfoot.

A maid brought her fur coat—­his gift; a page brought his own coat and hat.

“Will you call a cab?”

He turned and spoke to the porter.  Then they waited, side by side, in silence.

When the taxicab arrived he turned to give the porter her address, but she had forestalled him.  And he entered the narrow vehicle; and they sat through the snowy journey in utter silence until the cab drew up at his door.

Then he said:  “Are you not going home?”

“Not yet.”

They descended, stood in the falling snow while he settled with the driver, then entered the great building, ascended in the elevator, and stepped out at his door.

He found his latch-key; the door swung slowly open on darkness.

CHAPTER VII

An electric lamp was burning in the hallway; he threw open the connecting doors of the studio where a light gleamed high on the ceiling, and stood aside for her to pass him.

She stepped across the threshold into the subdued radiance, stood for a moment undecided, then: 

“Are you coming in?” she asked, cheerfully, quite aware of his ill-temper.  “Because if you are, you may take off my coat for me.”

He crossed the threshold in silence, and divested her of the fur garment which was all sparkling with melting snow.

“Do let’s enjoy the firelight,” she said, turning out the single ceiling lamp; “and please find some nice, big crackly logs for the fire, Kelly!—­there’s a treasure!”

His frowning visage said:  “Don’t pretend that it’s all perfectly pleasant between us”; but he turned without speaking, cleared a big arm-chair of its pile of silks, velvets, and antique weapons, and pushed it to the edge of the hearth.  Every movement he made, his every attitude was characterised by a sulky dignity which she found rather funny, now that the first inexplicable consternation of meeting him had subsided.  And already she was wondering just what it was that had startled her; why she had left the cafe with him; why he had left; why he seemed to be vexed with her.  For her conscience, in regard to him, was perfectly clear and serene.

“Now the logs, Kelly, dear,” she said, “the kind that catch fire in a second and make frying-pan music, please.”

He laid three or four logs of yellow birch across the bed of coals.  The blaze caught swiftly, mounting in a broad sheet of yellow flame, making their faces brilliant in the darkness; and the tall shadows leaped across floor and wall and towered, wavering above them from the ruddy ceiling.