She felt the soft burning of his kisses, the call of the room with its intoxicating, yet strangely ascetic perfume, the room to which all the time he seemed to be gently leading her.

And then a flood of strange, alien recollections and realisations seemed to bring her from a better place back to a worse,--the sound of a passing taxicab, the distant booming of Big Ben, sounds of the world outside, the actual day-by-day world, with its day-by-day code of morals, the world in which she lived, and her friends, and all that had made life for her.

She drew away, and he watched the change in her.
"I want to go!" she cried.

"Let me go!" "You are no prisoner," he assured her sadly.
He clapped his hands.

She had reached the door by now and found the handle yield to her fingers.