"There," he said briefly.

She caught her breath. But before she could make any answer he was
speaking again.

"You've been very good to me, Nan--pushed the gate of Paradise at least
ajar. And if it closes now, I've no earthly right to grumble. . . .
After all, I'm only one amongst your many friends." He reclaimed her
hands and drew them against his breast. "Good-bye, beloved," he said.
His voice sounded rough and uneven.

Instinctively Nan clung to him. He released himself very gently--very
gently but inexorably.

"So it's farewell, Sun-kissed."

Mechanically she shook hands and her lips murmured some vague response.
She heard the door of the flat close behind him, followed almost
immediately by the clang of the iron grille as the lift-boy dragged it
across. It seemed to her as though a curious note of finality sounded in
the metallic clamour of the grille--a grim resemblance to the clank of
keys and shooting of bolts which cuts the outer world from the prisoner
in his cell.

With a little strangled cry she sank into a chair, clasping her hands
tightly together. She sat there, very still and quiet, staring blankly
into space. . . .


And so, an hour later, Penelope found her. She was startled by the