come to her memory on the
train. "It's very nice and--and quiet--so I've been told. And I've
telegraphed for my rooms."

"I'll humour you this once," he answered, and gave the order.

She got into the carriage. It had blue cushions with the familiar smell
of carriage upholstery, and the people in the street still hurried about
their business as though nothing in particular were happening. The horses
started, and some forgotten key in her brain was touched as Chiltern
raised her veil again.

"You'll tear it, Hugh," she said, and perforce lifted it herself. Her
eyes met his--and she awoke. Not to memories or regrets, but to the
future, for the recording angel had mercifully destroyed his book.

"Did you miss me?" she said.

"Miss you! My God, Honora, how can you ask? When I look back upon these
last months, I don't see how I ever passed through them. And you are
changed," he said. "I could not have believed it possible, but you are.
You are--you are finer."

He had chosen his word exquisitely. And then, as they trotted sedately
through Madison Avenue, he strained her in his arms and kissed her.

"Oh, Hugh!" she cried, scarlet, as she disengaged, herself, "you mustn't
--here!"

"You're free!" he exclaimed. "You're mine at last! I can't believe it!
Look at me, and tell me so."

She tried.

"Yes," she faltered.

"Yes--what?"

"Yes. I--I am yours."

She looked out of the window to avoid those eyes. Was this New York, or
Jerusalem? Were these the streets through which she had driven and trod
in her former life? Her whole soul cried out denial. No episode, no
accusing reminiscences stood out--not one: the very corners were changed.
Would it all change back again if he were to lessen the insistent
pressure on the hand in her lap.

"Honora?"

"Yes?" she answered, with a start.

"You missed me? Look at me and tell me the truth."

"The truth!" she faltered, and shuddered. The contrast was too great
--the horror of it too great for her to speak of. The pen of Dante had
not been adequate. "Don't ask me, Hugh," she begged, "I can't talk about
it--I never shall be able to talk about it. If I had not loved you, I
should have died."

How deeply he felt and understood and sympathized she knew by the
quivering pressure on her hand. Ah, if he had not! If he had failed to
grasp the meaning of her purgatory.

"You are wonderful, Honora," was what he said in a voice broken by
emotion.

She thanked him with one flee