all the shallowness and insincerety of the fashinable, successful man.

"May I come in?" he asked, when they reached the flat, looking rather
as if he were conferring a favour than soliciting one.

"No; it is too late. Good-night."

"Too late!... " he laughed a little, and Lorraine felt her temper
rising. "It is not exceptionally late, a little earlier than usual in
fact. Why mayn't I come in?"

"Because I don't want you," she said coldly, and she saw him bite his
lip in swift vexation.

"I shall certainly not press you," he retorted, and turned away.

At the window of her drawing-room Lorraine lingered a few moments,
gazin with a half-longing expression at the gleam of the lights on the
dark flowing river. What was it that gave her that strange sense of
heartache to-night? Why had her usual companions bored and irritated
her? Why did Alymer Hermon's fine, boyish, refreshing face come so
often to her mind?

She was certainly not in love with him. The mere idea was ridiculous,
but it was equally certain that something about him had given rise to
this vague unrest and longing. Was it perhaps that he called to her
mind the youth she had never known, the young splendid, whole-hearted
years, when it was so easy to believe and hope and enjoy that which
life had never given her time for?