Marie Louise fell to pondering; suddenly she grew afraid to find Grinden Hall. She knew that Polly knew Lady Clifton-Wyatt. They might have met since Polly wrote that letter. Lady Clifton-Wyatt had perhaps––had doubtless––told Polly all about Marie Louise. Polly would probably refuse her shelter. She knew Polly: there was no middle ground between her likes and dislikes; she doted or she hated. She was capable of smothering her friends with affection and of making them ancient enemies in an instant. For her enemies she had no use or tolerance. She let them know her wrath.
The car stopped. The driver got down and went forward to a narrow lane opening from the narrow road. There was a sign-board there. He read it by the light of the moon and a few matches. He came back and said:
“Here she is. Grinden Hall is what she says on that theah sign-bode.”
Marie Louise was in a flutter. “What time is it?” she asked.
Davidge held his watch up and lighted a match.
“A little after one.”
“It’s awfully late,” she said.
The car was turning at right angles now, and following a narrow track curling through a lawn studded with shrubbery. There was a moment’s view of all Washington beyond the 101 valley of the moon-illumined river. Its lights gleamed in a patient vigilance. It had the look of the holy city that it is. The Capitol was like a mosque in Mecca, the Mecca of the faithful who believe in freedom and equality. The Washington Monument, picked out from the dark by a search-light, was a lofty steeple in a dream-world.
Davidge caught a quick breath of piety and reverence. Marie Louise was too frightened by her own destiny to think of the world’s anxieties.
The car raced round the circular road. Her eyes were snatched from the drowsy town, small with distance, to the imminent majesty of a great Colonial portico with columns tall and stately and white, a temple of Parthenonian dignity in the radiance of the priestly moon. There was not a light in any window, no sign of life.