And then, amongst the figures massed behind the exit in the grill, she saw him, his face red-bronze with the sea tan, his crisp, curly head bared, his eyes alight with a terrifying welcome; and a tremor of a fear akin to ecstasy ran through her:  the fear of the women of days gone by whose courage carried them to the postern or the strand, and fainted there.  She could have taken no step farther—­and there was no need.  New strength flowed from the hand she held that was to carry her on and on.

He spoke her name.  He led her passive, obedient, through the press to the side street, and then he paused and looked into her burning face.

“I have you at last,” he said.  “Are you happy?”

“I don’t know,” she faltered.  “Oh, Hugh, it all seems so strange!  I don’t know what I have done.”

“I know,” he said exultantly; “but to save my soul I can’t believe it.”

She watched him, bewildered, while he put her maid into a cab, and by an effort roused herself.

“Where are you going, Hugh?”

“To get married,” he replied promptly.

She pulled down her veil.

“Please be sensible,” she implored.  “I’ve arranged to go to a hotel.”

“What hotel?”

“The—­the Barnstable,” she said.  The place had 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.