She looked out of the window to avoid those eyes. Was this New York, or Jerusalem? Were these the streets through which she had driven and trod in her former life? Her whole soul cried out denial. No episode, no accusing reminiscences stood out—not one: the very corners were changed. Would it all change back again if he were to lessen the insistent pressure on the hand in her lap.
“Honora?”
“Yes?” she answered, with a start.
“You missed me? Look at me and tell me the truth.”
“The truth!” she faltered, and shuddered. The contrast was too great—the horror of it too great for her to speak of. The pen of Dante had not been adequate. “Don't ask me, Hugh,” she begged, “I can't talk about it—I never shall be able to talk about it. If I had not loved you, I should have died.”
How deeply he felt and understood and sympathized she knew by the quivering pressure on her hand. Ah, if he had not! If he had failed to grasp the meaning of her purgatory.
“You are wonderful, Honora,” was what he said in a voice broken by emotion.
She thanked him with one fleeting, tearful glance that was as a grant of all her priceless possessions. The carriage stopped, but it was some moments before they realized it.
“You may come up in a little while,” she whispered, “and lunch with me—if you like.”
“If I like!” he repeated.