They were passing through the long drawing-room towards the curtained doorway that led into the little boudoir.  The drawing-room was a palatial apartment with stately French furniture that Dinah surveyed with awe.  She could not picture herself as hostess in so magnificent a setting.  She could only think of Rose de Vigne.  It would have suited her flawless beauty perfectly, and she knew that Rose’s self-contained heart would have revelled in such an atmosphere.

But it made her feel a stranger, and she hastened through it to the cosier nest beyond.

This was a far more homely spot.  The furniture here was French also, and exquisitely delicate; but it was designed for comfort, and the gilded state of the outer room was wholly absent.

A tea-table stood near a deeply-cushioned settee, and the kettle sang merrily over a spirit-lamp.

Eustace dropped on to the settee and drew her suddenly and wholly unexpectedly down upon his knee.

“Oh, Eustace!” she gasped, turning crimson.

He wound his arms about her, holding her two hands imprisoned.  “Oh, Daphne!” he mocked softly.  “I’ve caught you—­I’ve caught you!  Here in your own bower with no one to look on!  No, you can’t even flutter your wings now.  You’ve got to stay still and be worshipped.”

He spoke with his face against her neck.  She felt the burning of his breath, and something;—­an urgent, inner prompting—­warned her to submit.  She sat there in his grasp in quivering silence.

His arms drew her nearer, nearer.  It was as if he were gradually merging her whole being into his.  In a moment, with a little gasp, she gave him her trembling lips.

He uttered a low laugh of mastery and gave his passion the rein, overwhelming her with those devouring kisses that from the very outset had always filled her with an indefinable sense of shame.  She was quite powerless to frustrate him.  The delicate barrier of her reserve was rudely torn away.  The burning blush on face and neck served but to feed the flame.  He kissed the panting throat as if he would draw the very life out of it.  There was fierce possession in the holding of his arms.  She thought she would never be free again.

The first fiery wave spent itself at last, but even then he did not let her go.  He held her pressed to him, and she lay against his breast trembling but wholly passive, overcome by an inexplicable longing to hide, to hide.

After a few seconds he spoke to her, his voice oddly unsteady, very deep.  “You’re driving me mad, Daphne.  Do you know that?”

“I—­I’m sorry,” she faltered, trying to shelter her tingling face in his coat.

His arms were tense about her.  “I want you more and more every day,” he said.  “I don’t know how to wait for you.  How long is it to our wedding?”

“Three weeks and four days,” she told him faintly.

He gave his low, quivering laugh, “What!  You are counting the days too!  Daphne!  My Daphne!  Need we wait—­all that time?”