escaped from her room, even at this height there came upon him again the
hot sluggishness of London. The sun was shining brightly, the air was
warm and still, the view was large and unimpeded; but he felt a strange,
almost tropical dreariness that seemed to him more dreadful than any
dreariness of winter.

"Do you spend much of your time here?" he said.

"A great deal. I sit here and read a book. You don't like it?"

She turned her bright eyes, with their dilated pupils, slowly away from
his, and looked down over the river.

"I do. But there's a frightful dreariness in London on such a day as
this. Surely you feel it?"

"No. I don't feel such things this summer."

In saying the words her voice had altered. There was a note of triumph
in it. Or so Isaacson thought. And that warmth, as of hope, in her had
surely strengthened, altering her whole appearance.

"One has one's inner resources," she added, quietly, but with a thrill
in her voice.

She turned to him again. Her tall figure--she was taller than he by at
least three inches--was beautiful in its commanding, yet not vulgar,
self-possession. Her thin and narrow hands held the balcony railing
rather tightly. Her long neck took a delicate curve when she turned her
head towards him. And nothing that time had left of beauty to her