The prince was holding himself in restraint with a visible effort. His
eyes were fixed upon Louise's face, as if trying to read her thoughts.

"Is the necessity so urgent?" he asked.

"Judge for yourself," she replied. "Henri Graillot is there, waiting for
me. You know how impatient he is, and all London is clamoring for his
play. Night to him is just the same as day. I shall telegraph from
Kendal the hour of my arrival."

The prince sighed.

"I think," he said quietly, "that I am the most unfortunate man in the
world! At least, then, you will permit me to drive you to Kendal? I
gather from your chauffeur that your car, although temporarily repaired,
is not altogether reliable."

She answered him only after a slight hesitation. For some reason or
other, his proposition did not seem wholly welcome.

"That will be very kind of you," she assented.

"If we start at once," the prince suggested, "we shall catch the Scotch
mail."

"You will surely lunch first--and you, prince?" John begged.

She laid her hand upon his arm.

"My friend, no," she replied. "I am feverishly anxious to get back to
London. Walk with me to the car. I will wave my adieus to Peak Hall when
we are up among the hills."

She drew him on a few paces ahead.

"I am going back to London," she continued, lowering her voice a little,
"with some very strange impressions and some very pleasant memories. I
feel that your life here is, in its way, very beautiful, and yet the
contemplation of your future fills me with an immense curiosity. I have
not talked to you for very long, Mr. Strangewey, and you may not be
quite the sort of person I think you are, but I am seldom mistaken. I am
an artist, you see, and we have perceptions. I think that even here the
time will come when the great unrest will seize you, too, in its toils.
Though the color may not fade from your hills, and though the
apple-blossom may still glorify your orchard, and your flowers bloom and
smell as sweetly, and your winds bring you the same music, I think that
the time will come when the note in you which answers to these things,
and which gives you contentment, will fail to respond. Then I think--I
hope, perhaps--that we may meet."

She spoke very softly, almost under her breath, and when she had
finished there seemed everywhere a strange emptiness of sound. The
panting of the engine from the motor-car, Stephen's measured words as he
walked with his uncongenial companion, seem