She stood obediently in the turmoil of Britons, Boers, and Kaffirs, that surged around.  She felt bewildered, strung up, unlike herself.  It was a land of strangers, indeed, and she felt forlorn and rather frightened.  Why had Guy looked at her so oddly?  Why had his welcome been so cold?  Could it be—­could it be—­that he was not pleased to see her, that—­that—­possibly he did not want her?  The dreadful chill went through her again like a sword thrusting at her heart, and with it went old Jeffcott’s warning words:  “Do you ever ask yourself what sort of man he may be after five years?  I’ll warrant he’s lived every minute of it.  He’s the sort that would.”

She had felt no doubt then, nor ever since, until this moment.  And now—­now it came upon her and overwhelmed her.  She glanced about her, almost as one seeking escape.

“I’ve fixed everything up.  Come along to the railway hotel!  You must be pretty tired.”  He had returned to her, and he stood looking at her with those strangely keen eyes, almost as if he had never seen her before, she thought to herself desolately.

She looked bade at him with unconscious appeal in her own.  “I am tired,” she said, and was aware of a sudden difficulty in speaking.  “Is it far?”

“No,” he said; “only a step.”

He gathered up her hand-baggage and led the way, making a path for her through the throng.

She scarcely noticed where she went, so completely did he fill her mind.  He had changed enormously, developed in a fashion that she had never deemed possible.  He walked with a free swing, and carried himself as one who counted.  He had the look of one accustomed to command.  She seemed to read prosperity in every line.  But was he prosperous?  If so, why had he not sent for her long ago?

They reached the hotel.  He led the way without pause straight to a small private room where a table had been prepared for a meal.

“Sit down!” he said.  “Take off your things!  You must be starved.”

He rang the bell and gave an order while she mutely obeyed.  All her confidence was gone.  She had begun to tremble.  The wonder crossed her mind if perhaps she, too, had altered, grown beyond all his previous conception of her.  Possibly she was as much a stranger to him as he to her.  Was that why he had looked at her with that oddly critical expression?  Was that why he did not now take her in his arms?

Impulsively she took off her hat and turned round to him.

He was looking at her still, and again that awful sense of doubt mastered and possessed her.  A great barrier seemed to have sprung up between them.  He was formidable, actually formidable.  The Guy of old days, impetuous, hot-tempered even, had never been that.

She stood before him, controlling her rising agitation with a great effort.  “Why do you look at me like that?” she said.  “I feel—­you make me feel—­as if—­you are a total stranger!”