As they drove from Luigi's to Knightsbridge, Louise leaned back in her
corner. Although her eyes were only half closed, there was an air of
aloofness about her, an obvious lack of desire for conversation, which
the others found themselves instinctively respecting. Even Sophy's
light-hearted chatter seemed to have deserted her, somewhat to John's
relief.

He sat back in his place, his eyes fixed upon Louise. He was so anxious
to understand her in all her moods and vagaries. He was forced to admit
to himself that she had deliberately chosen not to take any portion of
that drive home alone with him. And yet, as he looked back through the
evening, he told himself that he was satisfied. He declined to feel even
a shadow of discouragement.

After a time he withdrew his eyes from her face and looked out upon the
human panorama through which they were passing.

They were in the very vortex of London's midnight traffic. The night was
warm for the time of year, and about Leicester Square and beyond the
pavements were crowded with pedestrians, the women lightly and gaily
clad, flitting, notwithstanding some sinister note about their
movements, like butterflies or bright-hued moths along the pavements and
across the streets. The procession of taxicabs and automobiles, each
with its human freight of men and women in evening dress on their way
home after an evening's pleasure, seemed endless.

Presently Sophy began to talk, and Louise, too, roused herself.

"I am only just beginning to realize," the latter said, "that you are
actually in London."

"When I leave you," he replied, "I, too, shall find it hard to believe
that we have actually met again and talked. There seems to be so much
that I have to say," he added, looking at her closely, "and I have said
nothing."

"There is plenty of time," she told him, and once more the signs of that
slight nervousness were apparent in her manner. "There are weeks and
months ahead of us."

"When shall I see you again?" he asked.

"Whenever you like. There are no rehearsals for a day or two. Ring me up
on the telephone--you will find my number in the book--or come and lunch
with me to-morrow, if you like."

"Thank you," he answered; "that is just what I should like. At what
time?"

"Half past one. I will not ask either of you to come in now. You can
come down to-morrow morning and get the books, Sophy. I think I am
tired--tired," she added, with a curious little note of self-p