More than once I had half a mind to telegraph to Martin putting him off, and though I told myself that to do so would not be renunciation but merely flight from temptation, I always knew at the bottom of my heart that I really wanted him to come.

Nevertheless I vowed to my very soul that I should be strong—­strong in every word and look—­and if Alma was daring me I should defy her, and she would see that I should neither yield nor run away.

Thus I entrenched myself at last in a sort of bright strong faith in my power to resist temptation.  But I must leave it to those who know better than I the way to read a woman’s heart to say how it came to pass that towards five o’clock, when I heard the sound of wheels and going on to my balcony saw a jaunting-car at the front entrance, and then opening my door heard Martin’s great voice in the hall, I flew downstairs—­literally flew—­in my eagerness to welcome him.

There he was in his brown Harris tweeds and soft slouch hat with such an atmosphere of health and sweep of winds about him as almost took away my breath.

“Helloa!” he cried, and I am sure his eyes brightened at the sight of me for they were like the sea when the sun shines on it.

“You’re better, aren’t you?” he said.  “No need to ask that, though—­the colour in your face is wonderful.”

In spite of my resolution, and the attempt I made to show him only a kind of glad seriousness, I could not help it if I blushed.  Also I could not help it if, while going upstairs and telling him what had happened to the house-party, I said he was doomed to the disappointment of having nobody except myself for company, and then, woman-like, waited eagerly for what he would say.

“So they’re all gone except yourself, are they?” he said.

“I’m afraid they are,” I answered.

“Well, if it had been the other way about, and you had gone and they had stayed, by the stars of God, I should have been disappointed.  But things being as they are, we’ll muddle through, shan’t we?”

Not all the vows in the world could prevent me from finding that answer delightful, and when, on entering my boudoir, he said: 

“Sorry to miss Madame though.  I wanted a word with that lady before I went down to the Antarctic,” I could not resist the mischievous impulse to show him Alma’s letter.

While he read it his bright face darkened (for all the world like a jeweller’s window when the shutter comes down on it), and when he had finished it he said once more: 

“I hate that woman!  She’s like a snake.  I’d like to put my foot on it.”

And then—­

“She may run away as much as she likes, but I will yet, you go bail, I will.”

He was covered with dust and wanted to wash, so I rang for a maid, who told me that Mr. and Mrs. Eastcliff’s rooms had been prepared for Mr. Conrad.  This announcement (though I tried to seem unmoved) overwhelmed me with confusion, seeing that the rooms in question almost communicated with my own.  But Martin only laughed and said: