He swore to himself that he would go back no more into bondage; that he
would dwell no more upon the horrors through which he had lived. He would
take hold of the pleasant things of life with both hands, and grip them
tightly. A man should be master of his thoughts, not the slave of
unwilling memories. He would choose for himself whither they should lead
him; he would fight with all his nerve and will against the unholy
fascination of those few thrilling hours. He looked impatiently towards
the door, and longed for the return of his late companion that he might
continue his half-laughing flirtation. Then he remembered the album still
upon his knee, and opened it quickly. He had dabbled a little in
photography; he would find something here to keep his thoughts from the
forbidden place. And he did indeed find something--something which set
his heart thumping, and drew all the colour, which the sun and vigorous
exercise had brought, from his cheeks; something at which he stared with
wide-open eyes, which he held before him with trembling, nerveless
fingers. The picture of a woman! The picture of her!

It had lain loose in the book, with its back towards him. Only chance
made him turn it over. As he looked he understood. There was the
likeness, such likeness as there may be between a beautiful woman, a
little sad, a little scornful, with the faint lines of mockery about her
curving lips, the world-weary light in her distant eyes, and the fresh,
ingenuous girl with whom he had been bandying pleasantries during the
last few hours. He had felt it unknowingly. He realized it now, and the
thought of what it might mean made him catch at his breath like a
drowning man. Then she came in.

He heard her gay laughter outside, a backward word flung to one of the
tennis players, as she stepped in through the window, her cheeks still
flushed, and her eyes aglow.