against her closed eyelids.

"Mystery ... Mystery ... Mystery ..." This word kept beating through her
mind. Yes; it was all mysterious--pain, joy, illness, health, goodness,
vice--even love. But love was the greatest mystery of all. Whence did it
come, and whither go? Where was her love for Cecil?

"Mystery ... Mystery ... Mystery."

When she reached her own bedroom, and found herself once more alone,
that overkeyed, excited feeling came back upon her. She glanced at the
bed with distaste. It was impossible to think of stretching her limbs
out calmly and resting her head on a pillow. She went from one window to
the other, drawing back the curtains. Her room was a corner one and
looked south and east. The sun was now rising. The whole lower heaven
was covered by a dull-red down of cloudlets. It looked softly convex
above the quiet tops of the trees, like the breast of a vast bird.
Somewhere, far above, out of sight in the pale-grey vault of air, she
fancied its golden crest and beak, darting among the stars, that were as
little, shining gnats to it. She went and glanced at her watch which
Tilda had placed on the table beside her bed. A quarter to five. She
would wait until a quarter past, then she would ring up the butler (he,
at least, had had a night's rest) and order her horse.

As the sun rose higher, a thin white mist began to coil softly like
steam among the trees of Regent's Park. At five minutes to six she was
mounted. The brown gelding seemed as glad to be abroad as she was. He
_quhirred_ with pleasure and good spirits at every step. She loved the
creaking of the saddle, and the massive satin of his shoulders as each
step sent the great joint in rotary motion, making a shining ripple
along the sleek hide. She felt all lifted up high above the normal
griefs and trials of life. As she galloped to and fro, she thought of
Amaldi, and recalled her presentiment of something important about to
happen to her last evening. Had it happened? Was her meeting with Amaldi
an important thing? Perhaps his friendship was to prove vital. He, too,
had known unhappiness--of that she was certain. She thought of her
fancying how, if he were a priest, she could confess anything to him. It
came to her suddenly that it was because he would be sure to
understand--even things alien to his own nature.

* * * * *

She did not see her husband that day. He sent word that he had waked
feeling badly and woul