lessness had taken possession of Anne. She did not echo
his thanksgiving, an omission which he did not fail to note, but upon
which he made no comment.

It was in fact scarcely a place for any but day visitors, being some
considerable distance from the beaten track. The dinner placed before
them was not of a very tempting description, and Anne's appetite dwindled
very rapidly.

"You must eat something," urged Nap. "Satisfy your hunger with
strawberries and cream."

But Anne had no hunger to satisfy, and she presently rose from the table
with something like a sigh of relief.

They went into the drawing-room, a room smelling strongly of musk, and
littered largely with furniture of every description. Nap opened wide a
door-window that led into a miniature rosegarden. Beyond stretched the
common, every detail standing out with marvellous vividness in the weird
storm-light.

"St. Christopher!" he murmured softly. "We are going to catch it."

Anne sat down in a low chair near him, gazing forth in silence, her chin
on her hand.

He turned a little and looked down at her, and thus some minutes slipped
away, the man as tensely still as the awe-stricken world without, the
woman deep in thought.

He moved at last with a curious gesture as if he freed and restrained
himself by the same action.

"Why don't you think out loud?" he said.

She raised her eyes for a moment. "I was thinking of my husband," she
said.

He made a sharp movement--a movement that was almost fierce--and again
seemed to take a fresh grip upon himself. His black brows met above his
brooding eyes. "Can't you leave him out of the reckoning for this one
night?" he asked.

"I think not," she answered quietly.

He turned his face to the sinking sun. It shone like a smouldering
furnace behind bars of inky cloud.

"You told me once," he said, speaking with obvious constraint, "that you
did not think you would ever live with him again."

She stifled a sigh in her throat. "I thought so then."

"And what has happened to make you change your mind?"

Anne was silent. She could not have seen the fire that leapt and darted
in the dusky eyes had she been looking at him, but she was not looking.
Her chin was back upon her hand. She was gazing out into the darkening
world with the eyes of a woman who sees once more departed visions.

"I think," she said slowly at length, as he waited immovably for her
answer, "that I see my duty more clearly now than then