Patricia left the Princess with her husband at Felsen-Schvoenig, and journeyed back to London with Lord Torrens, whom she had met at Port Said. The Earl was somewhat annoyed at having been baulked of his Eastern tour; but as he did not care to visit the Holy Land in his daughter’s absence, his only alternative was to turn back. Secretly, he considered Patricia’s action absurdly quixotic, for he could not in the least understand her point of view. To him all creeds were but variations of one fundamental principle, and to quarrel over individual shades of opinion seemed unnecessary in the extreme. As for sentiment in religion, he refused to recognise that at all, since it could be analysed and physically accounted for by the materialistic exponents of modern thought. Nevertheless he was considerate enough not to add to the girl’s suffering by vain reproaches; he knew that, for the present, it was best to leave her alone. The home-coming seemed so strange that Patricia felt as if she were in a dream. Coming from the brilliant sunshine of the East, London looked cold and grey, and the dresses of the people curiously prosaic after the gay colours of the Orient. It was about six o’clock in the evening, and the lamps were already lit. Clerks and business people generally were travelling homewards, newspaper boys were calling out the special editions of the evening papers, and the traffic rushed bewilderingly through the crowded streets. Leaning back in the brougham, Patricia’s head seemed to swim, for the roads and shops and people had apparently magnified themselves tenfold, and loomed large and vast through the gloom of the evening twilight. She was thankful when the carriage slackened pace, and pulled up before the familiar door. But even Grosvenor Square seemed to have extended in area. She could not imagine why everything looked so immense.