He had never before called her that.  Not even his touch on her cheek under the olives equalled the simple treasure of that word.  And above the roar and clatter of the train, and the snoring of the Irishman, it kept sounding in her ears, hour after dark hour.  It was perhaps not wonderful, that through all that night she never once looked the future in the face—­made no plans, took no stock of her position; just yielded to memory, and to the half-dreamed sensation of his presence close beside her.  Whatever might come afterwards, she was his this night.  Such was the trance that gave to her the strange, soft, tireless immobility which so moved her Uncle whenever he woke up.

In Paris they drove from station to station in a vehicle unfit for three—­’to stretch their legs’—­as the Colonel said.  Since he saw in his niece no signs of flagging, no regret, his spirits were rising, and he confided to Mrs. Ercott in the buffet at the Gare du Nord, when Olive had gone to wash, that he did not think there was much in it, after all, looking at the way she’d travelled.

But Mrs. Ercott answered: 

“Haven’t you ever noticed that Olive never shows what she does not want to?  She has not got those eyes for nothing.”

“What eyes?”

“Eyes that see everything, and seem to see nothing.”

Conscious that something was hurting her, the Colonel tried to take her hand.

But Mrs. Ercott rose quickly, and went where he could not follow.

Thus suddenly deserted, the Colonel brooded, drumming on the little table.  What now!  Dolly was unjust!  Poor Dolly!  He was as fond of her as ever!  Of course!  How could he help Olive’s being young—­and pretty; how could he help looking after her, and wanting to save her from this mess!  Thus he sat wondering, dismayed by the unreasonableness of women.  It did not enter his head that Mrs. Ercott had been almost as sleepless as his niece, watching through closed eyes every one of those little expeditions of his, and saying to herself:  “Ah!  He doesn’t care how I travel!”

She returned serene enough, concealing her ‘grief,’ and soon they were once more whirling towards England.

But the future had begun to lay its hand on Olive; the spell of the past was already losing power; the sense that it had all been a dream grew stronger every minute.  In a few hours she would re-enter the little house close under the shadow of that old Wren church, which reminded her somehow of childhood, and her austere father with his chiselled face.  The meeting with her husband!  How go through that!  And to-night!  But she did not care to contemplate to-night.  And all those to-morrows wherein there was nothing she had to do of which it was reasonable to complain, yet nothing she could do without feeling that all the friendliness and zest and colour was out of life, and she a prisoner.  Into those to-morrows she felt she would slip back, out of her dream; lost, with hardly perhaps an effort.  To get away to the house on the river, where her husband came only at weekends, had hitherto been a refuge; only she would not see Mark there—­unless—!  Then, with the thought that she would, must still see him sometimes, all again grew faintly glamorous.  If only she did see him, what would the rest matter?  Never again as it had before!