. His remorse that he had not hurried
Mrs. Archdale into one of the first boats became almost intolerable. Why
had he not placed her in the care even of the Jew, Victor Munich, who
was actually seated in the last boat before the scramble round it had
begun?

More fortunate than he, Mrs. Archdale found occupation in tending the
few forlorn women who had been thrust back. He watched her moving among
them with an admiration no longer unwilling; she looked bright, happy,
almost gay, and the people to whom she talked, to whom she listened,
caught something of her spirit. Coxeter would have liked to follow her
example, but though he saw that some of the men round him were eager to
talk and to discuss the situation, his tongue refused to form words of
commonplace cheer.

When with the coming of the dawn the fog lifted, Nan came up to Coxeter
as he stood apart, while the other passengers were crowding round a fire
which had been lit on the open deck. Together in silence they watched
the rolling away of the enshrouding mist; together they caught sight of
the fleet of French fishing boats from which was to come succour.

As he turned and clasped her hand, he heard her say, more to herself
than to him, "I did not think we should be saved."

III

John Coxeter was standing in the library of Mrs. Archdale's home in
Wimpole Street. Two nights had elapsed since their arrival in London,
and now he was to see her for the first time since they had parted on
the Charing Cross platform, in the presence of the crowd of people
comprised of unknown sympathisers, acquaintances, and friends who had
come to meet them.

He looked round him with a curious sense of unfamiliarity. The colouring
of the room was grey and white, with touches of deep-toned mahogany. It
was Nan's favourite sitting-room, though it still looked what it had
been ever since Nan could remember it--a man's room. In his day her
father had been a collector of books, medals, and engravings connected
with the severer type of eighteenth-century art and letters.

In a sense this room always pleased Coxeter's fancy, partly because it
implied a great many things that money and even modern culture cannot
buy. But now, this morning--for it was still early, and he was on his
way to his office for the first time since what an aunt of his had
called his mysterious preservation from death--he seemed to see
everything in this room in another light. Everything which had once been
to