“Nat,” whispered Lewis, “You remember the night I left Nadir.  Is it the same dress?”

“Silly,” said Natalie, smiling faintly.  “I’ve grown ten inches since then.”

Lewis reached out slowly and took her hands.  How he remembered that good-by, every bit of it!  Natalie’s hands gripping his shoulders, his arms about her twitching, warm body, his face buried in her fragrant hair!  But to-night her hands were cold and trembling to withdrawal.  He felt withdrawal in her whole body, so close to him, so far away.  Why was she so far away?  Suddenly he remembered yesterday—­the moment when the stranger woman had looked out at him from Natalie’s eyes.  She was far away because they two had traveled far from childhood.

His own hands were hot.  They were eager to seize Natalie, to drag himself back, and her with him, into childhood’s land of faith.  But he knew he had not the strength for that.  He had only the strength to drop her cold hands and to turn and shout for Silas.

On the way home Lewis plunged rebelliously against his father’s mood.

“Dad,” he said, “do you think Natalie belongs to the Old Guard?”

“The Old Guard?” repeated Leighton, vacantly.  Then a gleam of-light dawned in his eyes.  “Your little pal—­the Old Guard.  No, she doesn’t belong in the way of a recruit; she hasn’t joined the ranks.  Do you want to know why?  Because, boy, your little pal and women like her are the foundation, the life’s blood, of the Old Guard.  She doesn’t have to join.  She is, was, and always will be the Old Guard itself.  In her single heart she holds the seven worlds of women.”

“But, Dad,” said Lewis, half turning in his seat, “you don’t know Natalie.  You’ve never once talked to her.”

Leighton shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve met lots of men that know God; I’ve never seen one that could prove him.  I know Natalie better—­better——­” Then suddenly his mind trailed off to its desert place.  He would speak no more that night.

The next day they were off.  Action and movement brought a measure of relief from the very start.  Leighton glanced almost eagerly from the windows of the hurrying train, watching for the sudden turn and the new view.  There remained in his eyes, however, a desperate question.  Was “going away” still the sovereign cure?

At New York a cable awaited him.  He opened it, read it, and turned bruskly to Lewis.

“I’m not going to London,” he said.  “I’m going to Naples direct.  Old Ivory will wait for me there.  You’ll be going to London, I suppose.”

For the first time Lewis felt far away from his father.  He flushed.  He felt like crying, because it came upon him suddenly that he was far away from his father, that they had been traveling different roads for many days.  Pride came to his aid.

“Yes,” he said, steadily, “I shall go to London.”

Leighton nodded and turned to Nelton.  He gave him a string of rapid orders, to which Nelton answered with his frequent and unfailing:  “Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.”