icely."

"We are as likely to forget our own existence," Drexley laughed. "For a
few hours then, _au revoir_."

Douglas walked down the broad street to his rooms, smoking a cigarette
and humming an opera tune. His eyes were bright, his head thrown back;
a touch of the Spring seemed to have found its way into his blood, for
he was curiously lighthearted. He let himself in with a latchkey and
entered his study for a moment or two, intending to dress early and dine
at his club. On his writing-table were several letters, a couple of
cards, and an orange-coloured envelope. He took the latter into his
fingers, hesitated for a moment, and then tore it open.

"GARD DE NORD, PARIS.

"I shall arrive at Dover at eight this evening. Will you meet
me?--EMILY."

Then he knew what this curious premonition of coming happiness had
meant, and his heart leaped like a boy's, whilst the colour burned in
his cheeks. She was coming home, coming back to him, the days of her
exile were over--the days of her exile and his probation. He snatched
at a time-table with trembling fingers, called for his servant, ordered
a hansom. He forgot his play, and did not even send a message to the
theatre. A galloping hansom, with the prospect of a half-sovereign
fare, seemed to him to crawl to Charing Cross like a snail across a
window-pane. He caught the train--had he missed it he would have
ordered out a special--and even the express rushing seawards with mails
and a full load of Continental passengers seemed like a stage-coach. He
paced up and down the narrow corridor till the steward looked at him
curiously, and people began to regard him with suspicion as a possible
criminal. He made himself a nuisance to the ticket-inspector, and when
they waited for ten minutes outside the harbour station he dragged out
his watch every few moments, and made scathing comments upon the railway
company and every one connected with it. Nevertheless, he found himself
in ample time to smoke a dozen spasmodic cigarettes before the stream of
passengers from the boat at last crossed the gangway--and amongst them
Emily de Reuss.

So little changed--her voice, her smile, even her style of travelling
dress was the same as ever. He held out his hands, and words seemed
ridiculous. Nevertheless, in a moment or two they found themselves
exchanging conventional remarks about the journey, the weather, the
crossing, as he piloted her along the platform to the carriage which he
ha