So by the middle of the morning Avery was on her way.  It seemed to her the longest journey she had ever travelled.  She chafed at every pause.  And through it all, Ina’s fierce words ran in a perpetual refrain through her brain:  “Love never casts away—­Love never casts away.”

She felt as if the girl had ruthlessly let a flood of light in upon her gloom, dazzling her, bewildering her, hurting her with its brilliance.  She had forced aside those drawn blinds.  She had pierced to the innermost corners.  And Avery herself was shocked by that which had been revealed.  It had never before been given to her to see her own motives, her own soul, thus.  She had not dreamed of the canker of selfishness that lay at the root of all.  With shame she remembered her assurance to her husband that her love should never fail him.  What of that love now—­Love the Invincible that should have shattered the gates of the prison-house and led him forth in triumph?

Reaching town, she drove straight to Crowther’s rooms.  But she was met with disappointment.  Crowther was out.  He would be back in the evening, she was told, but probably not before.

Wearily she went down again and out into the seething life of the streets to spend the longest day of her life waiting for his return.  Looking back upon that day afterwards, she often wondered how she actually spent the time.  To and fro, to and fro, this way and that; now trying to ease her soul by watching the soldiers at drill in the Park, the long, long khaki lines and sunburnt faces; now pacing the edge of the water and seeking distraction in the antics of some water-fowl; now back again in the streets, moving with the crowd, seeing soldiers, soldiers on every hand, scanning each almost mechanically with the vagrant hope of meeting one who moved with a haughty pride of carriage and looked like a prince in disguise.  Sometimes she stood to see a whole troop pass by, splendid boys swinging along with laughter and careless singing.  She listened to the tramping feet and merry voices with a heart that sank ever lower and lower.  She had started the day with a quivering wonder if the end of it might find her in his arms.  But ever as the hours passed by the certainty grew upon her that this would not be.  She grew sick with the longing to see his face.  She ached for the sound of his voice.  And deep in the heart of her she knew that this futile yearning was to be her portion for many, many days.  For over a year he had waited, and he had waited in vain.  Now it was her turn.

It was growing dusk when she went again in search of Crowther.  He had not returned, but she could not endure that aimless wandering any longer.  She went in to wait for him, there in the room where Piers had found sanctuary during some of the darkest hours of his life.

She was too utterly wearied to move about, but sat sunk in the chair by the window, almost too numbed with misery and fatigue for coherent thought.  The dusk deepened about her.  The roar of London’s life came vaguely from afar.  Through it and above it she still seemed to hear the tread of the marching feet as the gallant lines swung by.  And still with aching concentration she seemed to be searching for that one beloved face.