loved. No happiness lay in the land of Egypt for her, whatever her
unhappiness here; and she knew that Hylda must be more unhappy still
before she was ever happy again, if that might be. There was that
concerning Eglington which Hylda did not know, yet which she must know
one day--and then! But why were Hylda's eyes so much brighter and softer
and deeper to-night? There was something expectant, hopeful, brooding in
them. They belonged not to the life moving round her, but were shining
in a land of their own, a land of promise. By an instinct in each of
them they stood listening for a moment to the last strains of the opera.
The light leaped higher in Hylda's eyes.

"Beautiful--oh, so beautiful!" she said, her hand touching the Duchess's
arm.

The Duchess gave the slim warm fingers a spasmodic little squeeze. "Yes,
darling, beautiful," she rejoined; and then the crowd began to pour out
behind them.

Their carriages were at the door. Lord Windlehurst put Hylda in. "The
House is up," he said. "You are going on somewhere?"

"No--home," she said, and smiled into his old, kind, questioning eyes.
"Home!"

"Home!" he murmured significantly as he turned towards the Duchess and
her carriage. "Home!" he repeated, and shook his head sadly.

"Shall I drive you to your house?" the Duchess asked.

"No, I'll go with you to your door, and walk back to my cell. Home!" he
growled to the footman, with a sardonic note in the voice.

As they drove away, the Duchess turned to him abruptly. "What did you
mean by your look when you said you had seen Eglington drive away from
the House?"

"Well, my dear Betty, she--the fly-away--drives him home now. It has
come to that."

"To her house--Windlehurst, oh, Windlehurst!"

She sank back in the cushions, and gave what was as near a sob as she
had given in many a day. Windlehurst took her hand. "No, not so bad as
that yet. She drove him to his club. Don't fret, my dear Betty."

Home! Hylda watched the shops, the houses, the squares, as she passed
westward, her mind dwelling almost happily on the new determination to
which she had come. It was not love that was moving her, not love for
him, but a deeper thing. He had brutally killed love--the full life of
it--those months ago; but there was a deep thing working in her which
was as near nobility as the human mind can feel. Not in a long time
had she neared her home with such expectation and longing. Often on the
doorstep she had shut her e