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He caught and held her in his embrace with a passion that increased her vague fears, for hitherto he had never been a demonstrative lover, devoted though they were to each other.

He kissed her lips, her eyes, her soft white throat, fiercely, hungrily.

“Roger, Roger, don’t; you—you frighten me!” she gasped, weak and breathless. “Oh——”

Her head drooped limply on to his shoulder. For a moment he thought she had actually fainted, and the shock restored his self-control.

“Forgive me, sweetheart!” he cried with quick compunction. “I must have been mad to upset you so. It’s been an upsetting sort of day, hasn’t it? But it’s all right now, really!”

He was holding her now firmly, tenderly, protectively, master of himself once more; and she nestled against him, revived and reassured. He was her own Roger again—the man whom she loved and trusted.

“It was silly of me,” she confessed, smiling up at him—an April smile, for the tears had risen to her sweet grey eyes. “And you’re right, dear; it has been an upsetting day, with the fog, and Sir Robert detaining you, and—and everything else. And you’re still worrying about those missing papers. I know you are, though you’re trying to pretend you’re not! Perhaps you think I might be—oh, I don’t know how to put it—jealous. No, that’s not the word I want. That you’re afraid I might be vexed because you could think of anything in the world except me, on this day, of all the days in our life! But it’s not so, Roger—really it isn’t! I want to share your troubles—I mean to share them. I—I’m your wife.”