He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw. May I do so to-day?” “It’s your gate,” she said, amiably; “you got it first. You poor man, what have you been doing to yourself?” “Nothing except travelling all night,” he answered. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street—alone. Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside.
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