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Zena looked back upon that evening afterwards as the happiest of her life. She was frankly and innocently conscious of her own beauty, and joyous in the knowledge that, in her simple evening dress and Neapolitan violets, she contrasted favorably with any woman there. And she was glad not so much for her own sake, but for Wendover's. She liked to see the love and pride of possession in his eyes, she was proud of his admiration, and content with the world as she found it. For the moment, at any rate, she had put all fear out of her mind, and gave herself over wholly to the enjoyment of the evening. There was a theatre afterwards, followed by a cosy little supper, and then the drive home in a taxi that was all too short.
Zena lay back in the corner of the cab, dwelling on the events of the evening. Wendover was talking to her, but she was hardly conscious of what he said. Then presently she knew that her hand was in his, and that his arm was about her waist. He bent to kiss her, and she gave her lips back to him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.