“Please be sensible,” she implored.  “I’ve arranged to go to a hotel.”

“What hotel?”

“The—­the Barnstable,” she said.  The place had come to her memory on the train.  “It’s very nice and—­and quiet—­so I’ve been told.  And I’ve telegraphed for my rooms.”

“I’ll humour you this once,” he answered, and gave the order.

She got into the carriage.  It had blue cushions with the familiar smell of carriage upholstery, and the people in the street still hurried about their business as though nothing in particular were happening.  The horses started, and some forgotten key in her brain was touched as Chiltern raised her veil again.

“You’ll tear it, Hugh,” she said, and perforce lifted it herself.  Her eyes met his—­and she awoke.  Not to memories or regrets, but to the future, for the recording angel had mercifully destroyed his book.

“Did you miss me?” she said.

“Miss you!  My God, Honora, how can you ask?  When I look back upon these last months, I don’t see how I ever passed through them.  And you are changed,” he said.  “I could not have believed it possible, but you are.  You are—­you are finer.”

He had chosen his word exquisitely.  And then, as they trotted sedately through Madison Avenue, he strained her in his arms and kissed her.

“Oh, Hugh!” she cried, scarlet, as she disengaged, herself, “you mustn’t —­here!”

“You’re free!” he exclaimed.  “You’re mine at last!  I can’t believe it!  Look at me, and tell me so.”

She tried.

“Yes,” she faltered.

“Yes—­what?”

“Yes.  I—­I am yours.”

She looked out of the window to avoid those eyes.  Was this New York, or Jerusalem?  Were these the streets through which she had driven and trod in her former life?  Her whole soul cried out denial.  No episode, no accusing reminiscences stood out—­not one:  the very corners were changed.  Would it all change back again if he were to lessen the insistent pressure on the hand in her lap.

“Honora?”

“Yes?” she answered, with a start.

“You missed me?  Look at me and tell me the truth.”

“The truth!” she faltered, and shuddered.  The contrast was too great —­the horror of it too great for her to speak of.  The pen of Dante had not been adequate.  “Don’t ask me, Hugh,” she begged, “I can’t talk about it—­I never shall be able to talk about it.  If I had not loved you, I should have died.”

How deeply he felt and understood and sympathized she knew by the quivering pressure on her hand.  Ah, if he had not!  If he had failed to grasp the meaning of her purgatory.

“You are wonderful, Honora,” was what he said in a voice broken by emotion.

She thanked him with one fleeting, tearful glance that was as a grant of all her priceless possessions.  The carriage stopped, but it was some moments before they realized it.

“You may come up in a little while,” she whispered, “and lunch with me —­if you like.”