distinct. "I'm rough, no doubt, but please believe I'm white!"
She looked at him, startled, unhappy, not knowing what to say.
He nodded, still watching her. "Don't you forget it!" he said. "There are plenty of beasts in the world, but I'm not one of 'em. You'll drink champagne, of course."
He got up to procure it, and Maud managed in the interval to recover some of her composure.
When he came back, she mustered a smile and thanked him.
"You look fagged out," he said, as he filled her glass. "What have you been doing?"
"Getting straight in our new quarters here," she answered. "It takes some time."
"Where are your rooms?" he asked.
She hesitated momentarily. "It is really only one room," she said. "But it is a fine one. I have another little one upstairs; but it is a long way off. Of course I shall sleep downstairs with Bunny."
"Do you always sleep with him?" he asked.
She coloured a little. "Yes."
"Is he a good sleeper?" He had moved round and was filling his own glass.
She watched his steady hand with a touch of envy. She would have given much for as cool a nerve just then.
"Is he a good sleeper?" He repeated the question as he set down the bottle.
She answered it at once. "No; a very poor one."
"And you look after him night and day?" Bolton's eyes suddenly comprehended her. "I guess that accounts for it," he said, in a tone of enlightenment.
"For what?" She met his look haughtily, determined to hold her own.
But he smiled and refused the contest. "For much," he said. "Now, what will you eat? Lobster? That's right. I want to see you started. What a filthy racket they are making! I hope it won't upset your appetite any."
She had never felt less hungry in her life, but out of a queer sensation of gratitude she tried to eat what he put before her. He had certainly done his best to shield her from that objectionable crowd, but she was still by no means certain that she liked the man. He was too much inclined to take her friendship for granted, too ready to presume upon a very short acquaintance. And she was sure-quite sure now-that he had recognized her from the very first moment, down on the parade the night before. The knowledge was very disquieting. He was kind-oh, yes, he was kind. But she felt that he knew too much.
And so a certain antagonism warred against her gratitude, and prevented any gracious expression thereof. She only longed-oh, how desperately! – to flee away from this new and horrible world into which she had been so ruthlessly dragged and to see no more of its inhabitants for ever.
Vain longing! Even then she knew, or shrewdly suspected, that her lot was to be cast in that same world for the rest of her mortal life.
CHAPTER VII
THE MAGICIAN
"Oh, Maud! I thought you were never coming!"
Bunny's face, pale and drawn, wearing the irritable frown so habitual to it, turned towards the opening door.
"I have brought you a visitor," his sister said.
Her voice was low and nervous. She looked by no means sure of Bunny's reception of the news. Behind her came Jake Bolton the trainer, alert and self-assured. It was quite evident that he had no doubts whatever upon the subject. His thick mat of chestnut hair shone like copper in the brilliant electric light, such hair as would have been a woman's glory, but that Jake kept very closely cropped.
"What on earth for?" began Bunny querulously; and then magically his face changed, and he smiled. "Hullo! You?" he said.
Bolton came to his side and took the small, eager hand thrust out to him. "Yes, it's me," he said. "No objection, I hope?"
"I should think not!" The boy's face was glowing with pleasure. "Sit down!" he said. "Maud, get a chair!"
Bolton turned sharply, found her already bringing one and took it swiftly from her.
He sat down by Bunny's side, and took the little thin hand back into his. "Do you know, I've been thinking a lot about you," he said.
Bunny was vastly flattered. He liked the grasp of the strong fingers also, though he would not probably have tolerated such a thing from any but this stranger.
"Yes," pursued Jake, in his soft, level voice. "I reckon I've taken a fancy to you, little chap-I beg your pardon-Sir Bernard. How have you been to-day?"
"Don't call me that!" said Bunny, turning suddenly red.
"What?" Jake smiled upon him, his magic, kindly smile. "Am I to call you Bunny-like your sister-then?"
"Yes. And you can call her Maud," said Bunny autocratically. "Can't he, Maud?"
Jake turned his head and looked at her. She was standing before the fire, the red glow all about her, very slim, very graceful, very stately. She did not so much as glance at Jake, only bent a little towards the blaze so that he could not see her face.
"I don't think I dare," said Jake.
"Maud!" Peremptorily Bunny's voice accosted her. "Come over here! Come and sit on my bed!"
It was more of a command than an invitation. Maud straightened herself and turned.
But as she did so, their visitor intervened. "No, don't!" he said. "Sit down right there, Miss Brian, in that easy-chair, and have a rest!"
His voice was peremptory too, but in a different way. Bunny stared at him wide-eyed.
Jake met the stare with an admonitory shake of the head. "Guess Bunny's not wanting you," he said. "Don't listen to anything he says!"
Bunny's mouth opened to protest, remained open for about five seconds, and finally he said, "All right, Maud. You can stay by the fire while we talk."
And Maud, much to her own surprise, sat down in the low chair on the hearth and leaned her aching head back upon the cushion.
She had her back to Bunny and his companion, and the soft murmur of the latter's voice held nought disturbing. It seemed in fact to possess something of a soothing quality, for very soon her heavy eyelids began to droop and the voice to recede into ever growing distance. For a space she still heard it, dim and remote as the splash of the waves on the shore; then very softly it was blotted out. Her cares and her troubles all fell away from her. She sank into soundless billows of sleep.
It was a perfectly dreamless repose, serene as a child's and it seemed to last indefinitely. She lay in complete content, unconscious of all the world, lapped in peace and blissfully free from the goading anxiety that usually disturbed her rest. It was the calmest slumber she had known for many years.
From it she awoke at length with a guilty start. The fall of a piece of coal had broken the happy spell. She sat up, to find herself in firelight only.
Her first thought was for Bunny, and she turned in her chair and looked across the unfamiliar room. He was lying very still in the shadows. Softly she rose and stepped across to him.
Yes,
