It chanced, without any design on his part, that Berenice and he left almost at the same time, and met near the stage door. She dropped Fergusson’s arm—he had left his guests to see her to her carriage—and motioned to Matravers.
“Won’t you see me home?” she asked quietly. “I have sent my maid on, she was so tired, and I am all alone.”
“I shall be very pleased,” Matravers answered. “May I come in with you?” Fergusson lingered for a moment or two at the carriage door, and then they drove off. Berenice, with a little sigh, leaned back amongst the cushions.
“You are very tired, I am afraid,” he said gently. “The last few weeks must have been a terrible strain upon you.”
“They have been in many ways,” she said, “the happiest of my life.”
“I am glad of that; yet it is quite time that you had a rest.”
She did not answer him,—she did not speak again until the carriage drew up before her house. He handed her out, and opened the door with the latch-key which she passed over to him.
“Good night,” he said, holding out his hand.
“You must please come in for a little time,” she begged. “I have seen you scarcely at all lately. You have not even told me about your travels.”