They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. "And the will?" he said, with forced calmness. She crushed the letter in her hand. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable. He kissed her once on the lips with a passion of which, during all their days of married life, he had given no sign. At the threshold of the study he bade her good-night; but he did not touch her forehead with his lips. “I’m not the Devil.
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