Linforth looked up at his friend.

“There is someone I must go and speak to,” he said.  “I won’t be five minutes.”

He rose from the table and walked out of the restaurant.  His heart was beating rather fast, but it was surely curiosity which produced that effect.  Curiosity to know whether with her things were—­just not, too.  He passed across the hall and up the steps.  On the top of the steps she was waiting for him.  She had her cloak upon her shoulders, and in the background the gross young man waited for her without interposing—­the very image of a docile husband.

“Dick,” she said quickly, as she held out her hand to him, “I did so want to talk to you.  I have to rush off to a theatre.  So I sent in for you.  Why wouldn’t you speak to me?”

That he should have any reason to avoid her she seemed calmly and completely unconscious.  And so unembarrassed was her manner that even with her voice in his ears and her face before him, delicate and pretty as of old, Dick almost believed that never had he spoken of love to her, and never had she answered him.

“You are married?” he asked.

Violet nodded her head.  She did not, however, introduce her husband.  She took no notice of him whatever.  She did not mention her new name.

“And you?” she asked.

Linforth laughed rather harshly.

“No.”

Perhaps the harshness of the laugh troubled her.  Her forehead puckered.  She dropped her eyes from his face.

“But you will,” she said in a low voice.

Linforth did not answer, and in a moment or two she raised her head again.  The trouble had gone from her face.  She smiled brightly.

“And the Road?” she asked.  She had just remembered it.  She had almost an air of triumph in remembering it.  All these old memories were so dim.  But at the awkward difficult moment, by an inspiration she had remembered the great long-cherished aim of Dick Linforth’s life.  The Road!  Dick wondered whether she remembered too that there had been a time when for a few days she had thought to have a share herself in the making of that road which was to leave India safe.

“It goes on,” he said quietly.  “It has passed Kohara.  It has passed the fort where Luffe died.  But I beg your pardon.  Luffe belongs to the past, too, very much to the past—­more even than I do.”

Violet paid no heed to the sarcasm.  She had not heard it.  She was thinking of something else.  It seemed that she had something to say, but found the utterance difficult.  Once or twice she looked up at Dick Linforth and looked down again and played with the fringe of her cloak.  In the background the docile husband moved restlessly.

“There’s a question I should like to ask,” she said quickly, and then stopped.

Linforth helped her out.

“Perhaps I can guess the question.”

“It’s about—­” she began, and Linforth nodded his head.