She laid her fingers upon the white door of her little drawing-room and looked at him.

“If you do not mind,” he replied, “I should like to hear what Ruth says about going.”

This time she frowned.  She stood looking at him for a moment.  Arnold’s face was very square and determined, but there were still things there which she appreciated.

“You are very formal, to-day,” she declared.  “You give too many of your thoughts to your little friend.  I do not think that you are treating me kindly.  I should like to sit with you in my room and to talk to you of my books.  Look, is it not pretty?”

She threw open the door.  It was a tiny little apartment, in which all the appointments and the walls were white, except for here and there a little French gilded furniture of the best period.  A great bowl of scarlet geraniums stood in one corner.  Though the windows were open, the blinds were closely drawn, so that it was almost like twilight.

“You won’t come for five minutes?” she begged.

“Yes!” he answered, almost savagely.  “Come in and shut the door.  I want to talk to you—­not about your books.  Yes, let us sit down—­where you will.  That couch is big enough for both of us.”

The sudden change in his manner was puzzling.  The two had changed places.  The struggle was at an end, but it was scarcely as a victim that Arnold leaned towards her.

“Give me your hands,” he said.

“Arnold!” she whispered.

He took them both and drew her towards him.

“What is it you want?” he asked.  “Not me—­I know that.  You are beautiful, you know that I admire you, you know that a day like this is like a day out of some wonderful fairy story for me.  I am young and foolish, I suppose, just as easily led away as most young men are.  Do you want to make me believe impossible things?  You look at me from the corners of your eyes and you laugh.  Do you want to make use of me in any way?  You’re not a flirt.  You are a wife, and a good wife.  Do you know that men less impressionable than I have been made slaves for life by women less beautiful than you, without any effort on their part, even?  No, I won’t be laughed at!  This is reality!  What is it you want?” He leaned towards her.  “Do you want me to kiss you?  Do you want me to hold you in my arms?  I could do it.  I should like to do it.  I will, if you tell me to.  Only afterwards—­”

“Afterwards, what?”

“I shall do what I should have done if your husband hadn’t taken me into his office—­I should enlist,” he said.  “I mayn’t be particularly ambitious, but I’ve no idea of hanging about, a penniless adventurer, dancing at a woman’s heels.  Be honest with me.  At heart I do believe in you, Fenella.  What is it you want?”

She leaned back on the couch and laughed.  It was no longer the subtle, provoking laugh of the woman of the world.  She laughed frankly and easily, with all the lack of restraint to which her twenty-four years entitled her.