Finally she decided that even for an hotel she must look round, and that meanwhile she would “book” her luggage at Waterloo. Softly she rose to her feet. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. “I was never at any such dinner, and I am quite sure that I do not know you. It was the gratification of an immense necessity. I——” The door was thrown open. She too at once developed an anxious interest in the street outside.
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