“I shall never forget now,” she muttered.  “I shall never be able to forget.”

There was an odd note of fear in her voice.

CHAPTER VII

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DOOR

Having secured Kitty’s forgotten fan, Mallory absent-mindedly descended the long stone flight of steps instead of taking the lift and, regaining the street, hailed a passing taxi and drove towards Green Street, whither the Seymours’ car had already proceeded.

As the driver threaded his way through the traffic, Peter’s thoughts revolved round the scene which his unexpected return to the flat had interrupted.  There was only one deduction to be drawn from it, which was that Nan, after all, still cared for Maryon Rooke.  The old love still held her.

The realisation was bitter.  Even though the woman who was his wife must always stand betwixt himself and Nan, yet loving her as he did, it had meant a good deal to Mallory to know that no other man had any claim upon her.

And earlier in the afternoon, just before the maid had intruded on them to deliver Rooke’s telegram, it had seemed almost as though Nan, too, had cared.  One moment more alone together and he would have known—­been sure.

A vague vision of the future had even flashed through his mind—­he and Nan never any more to one another than good comrades, but each knowing that underneath their friendship lay something stronger and deeper—­the knowledge that, though unavowed, they belonged to each other.  And even a love that can never be satisfied is better than life without love.  It may bring its moments of unbearable agony, but it is still love—­the most beautiful and glorious thing in the world.  And the pain of knowing that a great gulf is for ever set between two who love is a penalty that real love can face and triumph over.

But now the whole situation was altered.  Unmistakably Maryon Rooke still meant a good deal to Nan, although Peter felt a certain consciousness that if he were to pit himself against Rooke he could probably make the latter’s position very insecure.  But was it fair?  Was it fair to take advantage of the quick responsiveness of Nan’s emotions—­that sensitiveness which gave reply as readily as a violin to the bow?

She was not a woman to find happiness very easily, and he himself had nothing to offer her except a love that must always be forbidden, unconsummated.  In God’s Name, then, if Maryon Rooke could give her happiness, what right had he to stand in the way?

By the time the taxi had brought him to the door of Kitty’s house, his decision was taken.  He would clear out—­see as little of Nan as possible.  It was the best thing he could do for her, and the consideration of what it would cost him he relegated to a later period.

His steps lagged somewhat as he followed the manservant upstairs to Kitty’s own particular den, and the slight limp which the war had left him seemed rather more marked than usual.  Any great physical or nervous strain, invariably produced this effect.  But he mustered up a smile as he entered the room and held out the recovered fan.