He had asked the question which she had asked herself in moments of pitiless self-examination, but, like her, he asked it too late. She answered now earnestly, passionately, swept beyond all selfish considerations on a tide of deep, sincere feeling. "Yes, I love you enough, Wolff. And if there have been any regrets, any longings which have caused you pain, forgive them, my husband—above all, understand them. They will pass—they must pass, because, at the bottom, you are my all in all." He made no answer. He lifted her hand to his lips, and in the movement there was a joy, a gratitude deeper than words could have expressed. She felt that she had satisfied him, and she, too, felt satisfied. Thus they sat silent together, hand clasped in hand, his head against her shoulder, whilst peace and a new happiness seemed to creep in about them with the evening shadows. And in her young hope and confidence Nora believed in this new happiness as she had believed in the old. It seemed so strong, so invulnerable, the obstacles so petty, so mean. They had been swept aside in a moment, like sand-castles before the onrush of the sea, so that it seemed impossible, absurd, that she could ever have thought of them as insurmountable. And yet, though heart and mind believed in the change, another wider, less definable sense, which we call instinct, remained doubtful and fearful. It was the one sign that all was not as it had once been, that they had only outwardly regained the past. Once they had lived for the future, longing for it in their extravagant youth as for a time which must reveal to them new wonders and joys. Now they clung anxiously to the present, scarcely daring to move or speak lest the peace, the outward semblance of unity, should be destroyed. Thus they sat silent together, each apparently plunged in his own untroubled reflections, each in reality fighting back thought as an enemy who might overshadow their victory. It was Arnim who at last spoke. He drew two letters from his pocket and gave them to her. "The postman met me on the stairs," he said. "One is a disappointment and the other the fulfilment of a wish. Which will you have first?" "The disappointment," she said, turning over the letters anxiously. "I always keep the _bonne bouche_ for the last. But it has grown so dark that I cannot see. You must tell me what is in both." "The one is from Aunt Magda," he answered. "It seems that the doctor has ordered Hildegarde a longer trial of the baths at Baden-Baden, so that their coming will be postponed a week or two at least. I am very sorry. I had looked forward to the time when you would have them—to help you."