He settled himself once more in his corner, and the train rushed on.  This time it was the strange hour at the Gare du Nord which he lived through again, her white face opposite to him in the refreshment-room, the bewilderment and misery she had been so little able to conceal, her spasmodic attempts at conversation, a few vague words about Lord Lackington or the Duchess, and then pauses, when her great eyes, haggard and weary, stared into vacancy, and he knew well enough that her thoughts were with Warkworth, and that she was in fierce rebellion against his presence there, and this action into which he had forced her.

As for him, he perfectly understood the dilemma in which she stood.  Either she must accept the duty of returning to the death-bed of the old man, her mother’s father, or she must confess her appointment with Warkworth.

Yet—­suppose he had been mistaken?  Well, the telegram from the Duchess covered his whole action.  Lord Lackington was dying; and apart from all question of feeling, Julie Le Breton’s friends must naturally desire that he should see her, acknowledge her before his two sons, and, with their consent, provide for her before his death.

But, ah, he had not been mistaken!  He remembered her hurried refusal when he had asked her if he should telegraph for her to her Paris “friends”—­how, in a sudden shame, he had turned away that he might not see the beloved false face as she spoke, might not seem to watch or suspect her.

He had just had time to send off a messenger, first to his friend at the Cafe Gaillard, and then to the Hotel du Rhin, before escorting her to the sleeping-car.

Ah, how piteous had been that dull bewilderment with which she had turned to him!

“But—­my ticket?”

“Here they are.  Oh, never mind—­we will settle in town.  Try to sleep.  You must be very tired.”

And then it seemed to him that her lips trembled, like those of a miserable child; and surely, surely, she must hear that mad beating of his pulse!

Boulogne was gone in a flash.  Here was the Somme, stretched in a pale silver flood beneath the moon—­a land of dunes and stunted pines, of wide sea-marshes, over which came the roar of the Channel.  Then again the sea was left behind, and the rich Picard country rolled away to right and left.  Lights here and there, in cottage or villa—­the lights, perhaps, of birth or death—­companions of hope or despair.

Calais!

The train moved slowly up to the boat-side.  Delafield jumped out.  The sleeping-car was yielding up its passengers.  He soon made out the small black hat and veil, the slender form in the dark travelling-dress.

Was she fainting?  For she seemed to him to waver as he approached her, and the porter who had taken her rugs and bag was looking at her in astonishment.  In an instant he had drawn her arm within his, and was supporting her as he best could,