Elizabeth looked at him across the table for one fleeting instant.

“She died, you see, when I discovered that I was in love with my husband.”

“I thought as much,” Mr. Hengist said placidly. “Pardon my rudeness, but does Stephen know?”

She shook her head.

“He—he—it’s rather difficult to make him understand.”

“I don’t think I’m qualified to give advice,” said Mr. Hengist.

“Oh, no! This is my own little game. I just thought you’d like to know. I found it all out in a flash, and— everything changed, as you said it would. And I—want to thank you—for all that you’ve done for me—and to tell you—”

“Beyond giving you a typewriter—” began Mr. Hengist more gruffly than ever.

“And the good advice. Oh, you know, Mr. Hengist! I was ungrateful and stupid at the time. I’m awfully grateful now. You did me more good than anybody.”

“That’ll do!” Mr. Hengist said loudly. “That’ll do, Elizabeth!”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Stephen was on the station-platform, eagerly scanning each carriage as it passed him. He had sprung forward before Elizabeth could open the door, and had swung it open for her.

“Oh—’Lisbeth!”

She gave him her hands; he thought she looked radiant, and there was that in her smile which made the blood race madly through his veins. They walked down the platform together. Elizabeth’s arm was in his; she squeezed it slightly, and said,

“Are you glad I’m back, Stephen?”

“That’s—a silly question,” he said. “You’ve enjoyed yourself?”

“Yes. Fairly. I—missed you rather.” She was overcome with shyness. “And—and everything,” she added hurriedly.

They got into the waiting car.

“Yes —exactly,” Stephen said. “Did you see the Mater?”

“I did.”

He looked down.

“More secrets?”

“Not—so very secret,” she said. She snuggled down in the car, and looked with contented eyes about her: at the tender green of spring, the grey shadows cast by overhanging trees, and the winding road ahead, dusty, and mottled with the sunlight filtering through the leaves above. “It’s good to be home again,” she said.

“It’s good to hear you—call it home,” he answered. “To me it hasn’t been home—all the week.”

Her head touched his sleeve, caressingly. Then her voice changed.

“My dear, you’re wearing the coat I put aside to give to the gardener.”

He lifted one hand from the wheel, and looked sheepishly down at the rough tweed.

“Am I?” he said.

“You know you are. It’s a horrible old coat, Stephen.”

“Well, but I like it. We can’t both of us wear new clothes on the same day.”

She tilted her head.

“You like it?”

He did not look at the hat, but at her.

“Rather! You look—” He broke off and put the car along faster.

“What do I look, Stephen?”

“Beautiful,” he said curtly.