The clasp of his hand, the strong hold of his arms about her as he bore her across the stream, the touch of his lips against her hair--the memory of these things had been with her all night.

She had tried to thrust them from her, but they refused to be dismissed.

More than once she had buried her hot face in the coolness of the pillows, conscious of a sudden tremulous thrill that ran like fire through all her veins.
And that Peter, too, knew they stood on dangerous quicksands when they were alone together, she was sure.

This morning, beyond a briefly-worded greeting at breakfast, he had hardly spoken to her, carefully avoiding her, though without seeming to do so, until her departure to Trenby Hall made it no longer necessary.

She hoped he would not stay long at Mallow.