“I did, more than ever then.  That happened because I loved you.”

“I can understand all the rest; but I can’t understand that.”

“I think I’d rather you didn’t understand it, darling.”

She sighed, puzzled over it and gave it up.  “But you didn’t love me when you—­when I—­when you wouldn’t have me?”

He answered her; but not with words.

“And now,” said she, “you’re going to Paris to-morrow.”

“Perhaps.”

“You must.  Perhaps they’ll be calling for you.”

“And perhaps I shan’t be there.  Do you know, Lucy, you’ve got violets growing among the roots of your hair?”

“I know you’re going to Paris, to-morrow, to please me.”

“Perhaps.  And after that we’re going to Alassio, and after that to Florence and Rome; all the places where your private secretary—­”

“And when,” said she, “is my private secretary going to take me home?”

“If his play succeeds, dear, he won’t have to take you to that horrid house of his.”

“Won’t he?  But I like it best of all.”

“Why, Lucy?”

“Oh, for such a foolish reason.  Because he’s been in it.”

“I’m afraid, darling, some of the houses he’s been in—­”

At that she fell to a sudden breathless sobbing, as if the life that had come back to her had spent itself again.

In his happiness he had forgotten Howland Street; or if he thought of it at all he thought of it as an enchanted spot, the stage that had brought him nearest to the place of his delight.

“Lucy, Lucy, how did you know?  I never meant you to.”

“Some one told me.  And I—­I went to see it.”

“Good God!”

“I saw your room, the room they carried you out of.  If I’d only known!  My darling, why didn’t you come to me then?  Why didn’t you?  I had plenty.  Why didn’t you send for me?”

“How could I?”

“You could, you could—­”

“But sweetest, I didn’t even know where you were.”

“Wherever I was I would have come to you.  I would have taken you away.”

“It was worth it, Lucy.  If it hadn’t been for that, I shouldn’t be here now.  Looking back it seems positively glorious.  And whatever it was I’d go through years of it, for one hour with you here.  One of those hours even when you didn’t love me.”

“I’ve always loved you, all my life long.  Only I didn’t know it was you.  Do you remember my telling you that your dream was divorced from reality?  It wasn’t true.  That was what was wrong with me.”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t always very faithful to my dream.”

“Because your dream wasn’t always faithful to you.  And yet it was faithful.”

“Lucy, do you remember the things I told you?  Can you forgive me for being what I was?”

“It was before I knew you.”

“Yes, but after?  That was worse; it was the worst thing I ever did, because I had known you.”