load of Continental passengers seemed like a stage-coach.  He paced up and down the narrow corridor till the steward looked at him curiously, and people began to regard him with suspicion as a possible criminal.  He made himself a nuisance to the ticket-inspector, and when they waited for ten minutes outside the harbour station he dragged out his watch every few moments, and made scathing comments upon the railway company and every one connected with it.  Nevertheless, he found himself in ample time to smoke a dozen spasmodic cigarettes before the stream of passengers from the boat at last crossed the gangway—­and amongst them Emily de Reuss.

So little changed—­her voice, her smile, even her style of travelling dress was the same as ever.  He held out his hands, and words seemed ridiculous.  Nevertheless, in a moment or two they found themselves exchanging conventional remarks about the journey, the weather, the crossing, as he piloted her along the platform to the carriage which he had reserved.  Her maid arranged the wraps and discreetly withdrew.  Her old luxurious habits had evidently survived her exile, for a courier was in charge of her luggage.  She had come, she told him, direct from St. Petersburg.  They sat opposite to one another, whilst all around them was the bustle of incoming passengers.  Conversation was impossible—­silence alone was eloquent.

“You have changed so little,” she said, smiling at him as the train swept away from the station.

“And you, surely not at all,” he answered.

“You knew—­that he was dead?” she asked softly.

“The Duchess told me so—­six months ago.  I wondered why you stayed there.”

She sighed.

“I have been a woman of many luxuries,” she said, “yet I think the sweetest of them all I experienced at Molchavano.  I really think that I did a little good.  After his death I sent to Petersburg for nurses and I stayed at the hospital till they came.

“The luxury of doing good can be indulged in here as well as Molchavano,” he murmured.

* * * * *

They were nearing London.  Far away on either side was an amphitheatre of lights.  She leaned forward and gazed thoughtfully out of the window.

“Douglas,” she said, “do you remember our first journey together?”

He laughed.

“Shall I ever forget it!”

“How young you were,” she murmured—­“how eager and how ambitious.  Life was like a fairy tale to you, full of wonderful things which no one believes in nowadays.  I wonder, have you found the truth yet?  Have you learnt your lesson?”

“Life is more like a fairy tale than ever to-night,” he answered gaily.  “As to the rest, I will answer you presently.  Only remember, that if I have jealously preserved a few illusions it is because they are the flowers which grow along the byeways of life.  You may smile at them, if you will, but not unkindly.”