She felt that Ella had confessed to her that her infatuation—­Phyllis called it infatuation—­had not passed away, though she had been strong enough upon that night, when her husband had so suddenly returned, to fly from its consequences.  No, her infatuation had not died.

But Herbert Courtland—­what of him?  He had also had strength—­once.  Would he have strength again?  He had told her, while they were together in one of the boats drifting down the placid river, that he believed in the influence which a woman could exercise upon a man’s life being capable of changing his nature so completely as if a miracle had been formed upon him.  She had not had the courage to ask him if he had any particular instance in his mind that impressed this belief upon him.

Had he been led to cast that infatuation—­if he had ever been subjected to it—­behind him, by reason of her influence over him since she had repeated to him the pathetic words of Mrs. Haddon, and he had gone straight aboard the yacht on that strange cruise?

She could scarcely doubt that he was ready to acknowledge how great had been her influence upon his life.  He had shown her in countless ways that she had accomplished all that she had sought to achieve.  She had had no need to throw herself at his head—­the phrase which Ella suggested her fellow-guests would probably employ in referring to the relative positions of Phyllis and Herbert.  No, she had ever found him by her side, and it did not need her to exercise much cleverness to keep him there.

But then, why had he so suddenly hurried away from that pleasant life beside the still waters?

This was the question which was on her mind as the train ran into the station at Paddington.  She got out of the carriage, and while her maid went to look after the luggage, she glanced down the platform for the footman.  He came up to her in a moment and took her dressing-bag and jewel-case.

“The brougham is here, I suppose?” she said, as she walked down the platform.

It was at the entrance to the station, he told her.

She paused for a moment, and glanced back to see if there had been much luggage in the train which she had left—­if her maid would be likely to be kept waiting for long.  At that instant a porter, with a portmanteau on his shoulder and a Gladstone bag in his hand, hurrying up by the side of the train which was ready to depart from the next platform, shouted to a group of Eton boys who were blocking the way: 

“By your leave, gents!”

She started and took a step to one side, and that instant was sufficient to make her aware of the fact that the portmanteau carried by the porter to the train which was about to leave for Maidenhead was Herbert Courtland’s.  There was no mistaking it.  It bore on one end his initials and his private sign.

She took a few steps nearer the train by which she had come, and followed the porter with her eyes.