When the exciting time of this listening had gone and she stepped from the train into the lazy spring silence of the village, her own heart spelled the thing in quick, loud, hammering beats—­a thing which, now that she faced it, was so wildly impossible that her cheeks burned at the first second of actual realisation of its enormity; and her knees weakened in a deathly tremble, quite as if they might bend embarrassingly in either direction.

Then in the outer spaces of her mind there grew, to save her, a sense of her crass fatuity.  She was quickly in a carriage, eager to avoid any acquaintance, glad the driver was no village familiar who might amiably seek to regale her with gossip.  They went swiftly up the western road through its greening elms to where Clytie kept the big house—­her own home while she lived, and the home of the family when they chose to go there.

At last, the silent, cool house with its secretive green shutters rose above her; the wheels made their little crisping over the fine metal of the driveway.  She hastily paid the man and was at the side door that opened into the sitting-room.  As she put her hand to the knob she was conscious of Clytie passing the window to open the door.

Then they were face to face over the threshold—­Clytemnestra, of a matronly circumference, yet with a certain prim consciousness of herself, which despite the gray hair and the excellent maturity of her face, was unmistakably maidenish—­Clytie of the eyes always wise to another’s needs and beaming with that fine wisdom.

She started back from the doorway by way of being playfully dramatic—­her hands on her hips, her head to one side at an astounded angle.  Yet little more than a second did she let herself simulate this welcoming incredulity—­this stupefaction of cordiality.  There must be quick speech—­especially as to Nancy’s face—­which seemed strangely unfamiliar, set, suppressed, breathless, unaccountably young—­and there had to be the splendid announcement of another matter.

“Why, child, is it you or your ghost?”

Nancy could only nod her head.

“My suz! what ails the child?”

Here the other managed a shake of the head and a made smile.

“And of all things!—­you’ll never, never, never guess!—­”

“There—­there!—­yes, yes—­yes!  I know—­know all about it—­knew it—­knew it last night—­”

She had put out a hand toward Clytie and now reached the other from her side, easing herself to the doorpost against which she leaned and laughed, weakly, vacantly.

“Some one told you—­on the way up?”

“Yes—­I knew it, I tell you—­that’s what makes it so funny and foolish—­why I came, you know—­” She had now gained a little in coherence, and with it came a final doubt.  She steadied herself in the doorway to ask—­“When did Bernal come?”

And Clytie, somewhat relieved, became voluble.