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Updated: May 4, 2025
Eve, watching him attentively, paled a little. "Yes," she said, "I'm dining with the Bramfells." "What time will you get home?" He scarcely realized why he put the question. The song of Self still sounded triumphantly, and he responded without reflection. His eyes held hers, his fingers pressed her hand; the intense mastery of his will passed through her in a sudden sense of fear.
"A fairy princess!" he had heard the red-haired man say as Lillian Astrupp came into view along the Bramfells' corridor, and the simile had seemed particularly apt. With her grace, her delicacy, her subtle attraction, she might well be the outcome of imagination. But with Eve it was different. She also was graceful and attractive but it was grace and attraction of a different order.
Never had he been so vehemently himself; never had Chilcote seemed so complete a shadow. As Eve seated herself, he moved forward and leaned over the back of her chair. The impulse that had filled him in his interview with Renwick, that had goaded him as he drove to the reception, was dominant again. "I tried to say something as we drove to the Bramfells' to-night," he began.
A man has to be seen at these things; he needn't say anything or do anything, but it's bad form if he fails to show up." Loder raised his head. "You must explain," he said, abruptly. Chilcote started slightly at the sudden demand. "I I suppose I'm rather irrelevant," he said, quickly. "Fact is, there's a reception at the Bramfells' to-night.
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