F. Capes stood side by side upon an old Persian carpet that did duty as a hearthrug in the dining-room of their flat and surveyed a shining dinner-table set for four people, lit by skilfully-shaded electric lights, brightened by frequent gleams of silver, and carefully and simply adorned with sweet-pea blossom. She let her mind run into dreams of that cloud paradise of an altered world in which the Goopes and Minivers, the Fabians and reforming people believed. “About my sister,” she repeated slowly. She dreaded leaving him for the night, but separated herself finally. “She finds lying up so much very irksome. He well knows that but two lives—those of Thames Darrell and Sir Rowland Trenchard,—stand between you and the vast possessions of the family. I wonder how it is,” she added, “that boys always make love so impertinently. It shall never be said that I raised my arm willingly against a woman. "Give me till to-morrow," implored she, "and if I can bring myself to part with him, you shall have him without another word. "My demeanour ought to convince you that I came with no hostile intention.
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