her.

Even the humble beings who work in hotels are responsive to unusual
disturbances in the ether. At the Barnstable, a gala note prevailed:
bell boys, porters, clerk, and cashier, proud of their sudden wisdom,
were wreathed in smiles. A new automobile, in Chiltern's colours, with
his crest on the panel, was panting beside the curb.

"I meant to have had it this morning," he apologized as he handed her
in, "but it wasn't ready in time."

Honora heard him, and said something in reply. She tried in vain to
rouse herself from the lethargy into which she had fallen, to cast off
the spell. Up Fifth Avenue they sped, past meaningless houses, to the
Park. The crystal air of evening was suffused with the level evening
light; and as they wound in and out under the spreading trees she caught
glimpses across the shrubbery of the deepening blue of waters. Pools of
mystery were her eyes.

The upper West Side is a definite place on the map, and full,
undoubtedly, of palpitating human joys and sorrows. So far as Honora was
concerned, it might have been Bagdad. The automobile had stopped before
a residence, and she found herself mounting the steps at Chiltern's
side. A Swedish maid opened the door.

"Is Mr. White at home?" Chiltern asked.

It seemed that "the Reverend Mr. White" was. He appeared, a portly
gentleman with frock coat and lawn tie who resembled the man in the
moon. His head, like polished ivory, increased the beaming effect of his
welcome, and the hand that pressed Honora's was large and soft and warm.
But dreams are queer things, in which no events surprise us.

The reverend gentleman, as he greeted Chiltern, pronounced his name with
unction. His air of hospitality, of good-fellowship, of taking the world
as he found it, could not have been improved upon. He made it apparent
at once that nothing could surprise him. It was the most natural
circumstance in life that two people should arrive at his house in an
automobile at half-past six in the evening and wish to get married:
if they chose this method instead of the one involving awnings and
policemen and uncomfortably-arrayed relations and friends, it was none
of Mr. White's affair. He led them into the Gothic sanctum at the
rear of the house where the famous sermons were written that shook the
sounding-board of the temple where the gentleman preached,--the sermons
that sometimes got into the newspapers. Mr. White cleared his throat.

"I am--very familiar with