And then Honora heard Chiltern saying somewhat coldly:—­“In order to save time, Mr. White, I wish to tell you that Mrs. Leffingwell has been divorced—­”

The Reverend Mr. White put up a hand before him, and looked down at the carpet, as one who would not dwell upon painful things.

“Unfortunate—­ahem—­mistakes will occur in life, Mr. Chiltern—­in the best of lives,” he replied.  “Say no more about it.  I am sure, looking at you both—­”

“Very well then,” said Chiltern brusquely, “I knew you would have to know.  And here,” he added, “is an essential paper.”

A few minutes later, in continuation of the same strange dream, Honora was standing at Chiltern’s side and the Reverend Mr. White was addressing them:  What he said—­apart of it at least—­seemed curiously familiar.  Chiltern put a ring on a finger of her ungloved hand.  It was a supreme moment in her destiny—­this she knew.  Between her responses she repeated it to herself, but the mighty fact refused to be registered.  And then, suddenly, rang out the words: 

   “Those whom God hath joined together let no man Put asunder.”

Those whom God hath joined together!  Mr. White was congratulating her.  Other people were in the room—­the minister’s son, his wife, his brother-in-law.  She was in the street again, in the automobile, without knowing how she got there, and Chiltern close beside her in the limousine.

“My wife!” he whispered.

Was she?  Could it be true, be lasting, be binding for ever and ever?  Her hand pressed his convulsively.

“Oh, Hugh!” she cried, “care for me—­stay by me forever.  Will you promise?”

“I promise, Honora,” he repeated.  “Henceforth we are one.”

Honora would have prolonged forever that honeymoon on summer seas.  In those blissful days she was content to sit by the hour watching him as, bareheaded in the damp salt breeze, he sailed the great schooner and gave sharp orders to the crew.  He was a man who would be obeyed, and even his flashes of temper pleased her.  He was her master, too, and she gloried in the fact.  By the aid of the precious light within her, she studied him.

He loved her mightily, fiercely, but withal tenderly.  With her alone he was infinitely tender, and it seemed that something in him cried out for battle against the rest of the world.  He had his way, in port and out of it.  He brooked no opposition, and delighted to carry, against his captain’s advice, more canvas than was wise when it blew heavily.  But the yacht, like a woman, seemed a creature of his will; to know no fear when she felt his guiding hand, even though the green water ran in the scuppers.