She watched him, bewildered, while he put her maid into a cab, and by an effort roused herself.
"Where are you going, Hugh?"
"To get married," he replied promptly.
She pulled down her veil.
"Please be sensible," she implored. "I've arranged to go to a hotel."
"What hotel?"
"The—the Barnstable," she said. The place had come to her memory on the train. "It's very nice and—and quiet—so I've been told. And I've telegraphed for my rooms."
"I'll humour you this once," he answered, and gave the order.
She got into the carriage. It had blue cushions with the familiar smell of carriage upholstery, and the people in the street still hurried about their business as though nothing in particular were happening. The horses started, and some forgotten key in her brain was touched as Chiltern raised her veil again.
"You'll tear it, Hugh," she said, and perforce lifted it herself. Her eyes met his—and she awoke. Not to memories or regrets, but to the future, for the recording angel had mercifully destroyed his book.