He put further remonstrances by, with a feeling of sickness in the throat.  Again realization surged upon him that he had no words with which to speak to people like this.  They lived on another plane, and saw by other lights.  He was like a child wandering on a field of battle.

He found a carriage, and got into it beside her, and sat in silence while they drove through the throng of the streets.  He saw, through the window, the brisk tides of the pavement, the lights and the cafes; they seemed remote from him, inaccessible.  Inside the carriage, he could hear the steady, full breathing of the woman at his side.

“You will at least allow me to go first,” he said, as they drew up at last.  He was prepared to carry this point if he had to lock her out of the house.  But she made no demur.

“As you will,” she murmured.

He found her a place to wait, an alcove on the stairs.  As he guided her to it, a touch on the arm showed him she was trembling.

“I will be a very little while,” he promised, and ran up the stairs.

It was Buscarlet who opened the door to him, with Truelove standing behind his shoulder.

“Welcome, welcome!” babbled Buscarlet.  “Oh, but we have been eager for you!  Tell me, will she—­will she come?”

“She is waiting on the stairs, in the alcove,” answered O’Neill.

Buscarlet’s mild eyes opened in amaze.  “You have brought her with you?” he cried.

O’Neill nodded.

“Thank God!” ejaculated Truelove.

“How is he?” asked O’Neill.  “Still—­er—­living, eh?”

It was Truelove that replied.  “Still keeping on, sir,” he answered.  “But changed, as you might say.  Softened would be the word, sir.”

“What d’ye mean?” demanded O’Neill.

“Well, sir,” said the ex-corporal of dragoons, with a touch of hesitation, “it isn’t for me to judge, but I should say he’s—­he’s got religion.  Or a taste of it, anyway.”

O’Neill stared at the pair of them in open dismay.  “Let me see him,” he said shortly, and they followed him through the little anteroom to the great studio.

Behind the screen, the narrow bed was white, and on it Regnault lay in stillness, looking up.

He started slightly as O’Neill appeared at the foot of his bed, and the faint flush rose in his face.  “Hush!” he said, with a forefinger uplifted, and poised for a few seconds on the brink of a spasm.

“Ah!” he said when he was safe.  “That was a near thing, O’Neill.  I am glad to see you back, my friend.”

He was tranquil; even that undertone of mockery, so familiar in his voice, was gone.  A rosary sprawled on his breast; O’Neill recognized it for a splendid piece of Renaissance work that had lain about the room for months.

“I have found my happiness in meditation,” Regnault was saying, in a still, silken voice.  “But tell me, O’Neill—­will she come?”

“Yes,” said O’Neill, wearily, “she will come.”  Regnault made a gentle gesture of thanks and closed his eyes.  His long fingers slid on the ivory beads and his lips moved.  O’Neill gazed down on him with a weakness of bewilderment; his landmarks were shifting.