“My love, not lost.” “Yes, Henry, lost, more than if the grave had closed over them; those forfeited things do not return. I have a mother’s heart now when I no longer need it,” she said, with a wan smile, “and I know—ah, I know so many things, such pitiful things. The other day a tiny baby grasped at my breast and tried to nestle his head there—to suck my breast, Henry—it was worse than death, for I knew I had lost the best sweetness of life.” “My love, my love, those things are not lost,” cried her husband, and then with sudden and surprising astuteness, he added, “there will be Gwen’s children.” She clutched his hand in a sudden tremor of excitement. “Ah, and then—_then_, too, Gwen might understand—now—” she coughed softly and broke off. “But, Henry, I have you, we will go together as we used to do; perhaps work, regular work, may make me feel better.” “My love,” he cried eagerly, “I am certain it is just the thing you want, the very thing.” “Perhaps,” she said sadly, “perhaps it is.” CHAPTER XXXIV. ONE morning Strange came into his wife’s boudoir with his whip in his hand, and a light overcoat on his arm. “I am going out beyond Highgate,” he said, “to see a pointer pup, it is a pretty drive, would you like to come?” She had been thinking with a sort of dread of the hours that must run before the darkness came, and of the numbers of times she would be expected to smile, to return brilliant answers to dull questions, and generally to keep up her superb deception. She had a dozen engagements but she decided to go with him. He drove a high mail-phaeton that ran very lightly. “That Highgate hill is a bad one,” he said as they were starting, giving the brake a sharp tug, “I don’t think this will cave in easily, however.” “Besides, Hengist and Horsa can be trusted anywhere,” said Gwen, who knew nothing of ordinary nervousness. “I wouldn’t trust anything in horseflesh down a steep hill with the brake off. Look down that mesh of streets! Taking it in patches there isn’t a more hideous, sordid, mean hole in the world than this London, just look through that lane!” Gwen gave a shrug of disgust. “It’s all frightful and gray and deadly dull, but that never strikes me as the worst part of life in these places. It is the hideous want of privacy that revolts me, and the awful nearness of one human creature to another, the sheer impossibility of thinking, or feeling, or looking, except under observation, the horrible indecent openness of life.” “What do you know about it?” he asked laughing.