laxed.

The dusk began to fall. One or two lights appeared. The
driver drew up to light his lamps. Skrebensky moved for the
first time, leaning forward to watch the driver. His face had
always the same still, clarified, almost childlike look,
impersonal.

They saw the driver's strange, full, dark face peering into
the lamps under drawn brows. Ursula shuddered. It was the face
almost of an animal yet of a quick, strong, wary animal that had
them within its knowledge, almost within its power. She clung
closer to Krebensky.

"My love?" she said to him, questioningly, when the car was
again running in full motion.

He made no movement or sound. He let her hold his hand, he
let her reach forward, in the gathering darkness, and kiss his
still cheek. The crying had gone by--he would not cry any
more. He was whole and himself again.

"My love," she repeated, trying to make him notice her. But
as yet he could not.

He watched the road. They were running by Kensington Gardens.
For the first time his lips opened.

"Shall we get out and go into the park," he asked.

"Yes," she said, quietly, not sure what was coming.

After a moment he took the tube from its peg. She saw the
stout, strong, self-contained driver lean his head.

"Stop at Hyde Park Corner."

The dark head nodded, the car ran on just the same.

Presently they pulled up. Skrebensky paid the man. Ursula
stood back. She saw the driver salute as he received his tip,
and then, before he set the car in motion, turn and look at her,
with his quick, powerful, animal's look, his eyes very
concentrated and the whites of his eyes flickering. Then he
drove away into the crowd. He had let her go. She had been
afraid.

Skrebensky turned with her into the park. A band was still
playing and the place was thronged with people. They listened to
the ebbing music, then went aside to a dark seat, where they sat
closely, hand in hand.

Then at length, as out of the silence, she said to him,
wondering:

"What hurt you so?"

She really did not know, at this moment.

"When you said you wanted never to marry me," he replied,
with a childish simplicity.

"But why did that hurt you so?" she said. "You needn't mind
everything I say so particularly."

"I don't know--I didn't want to do it," he said, humbly,
ashamed.

She pressed his hand warmly. They sat close together,
watching the soldiers go by with their sweethearts, the lights
trailing in myriads down the great