How could this girl have become a stranger? It was impossible. Yet it was also impossible that he for five years had neglected to look for her. He had not remembered her for five years. He could not now believe it. The five years confronted him, inexorably accusing. He reached Curzon Street, and at once looked for his mother. She could tell him all there was to know of Miranda, and in the morning he would go to her. His mother came from her room as Peter arrived on the stairs. "You are tired, mother. You want to sleep?" "We will talk in the morning, Peter." "Not to-night?" "It is not necessary to-night." Mrs. Paragon smiled mysteriously, and added: "You will find her in the drawing-room." Peter's heart bounded. "She is here?" he breathlessly asked. He looked at the door between them. Mrs. Paragon kissed him good night without a word, and went into her room. When Peter went in to Miranda he saw himself explaining away the years in a rush of eloquence. He would torrentially claim Miranda. He would persuade and overwhelm her. Miranda, for her part, waited eagerly upon the event. She had decided to be mistress of herself till for herself she had judged that Peter's mother was right. She pretended she was not yet sure that Peter had never ceased to care. She wanted to play delicately with her glad conviction. But Peter could not speak, and Miranda could not play. He came towards her and stood a moment. His lips foolishly quivered, and the veil upon Miranda was torn. Her hand went out to him. She saw she had moved only when Peter dropped beside her chair. There was nothing now to explain. He just crept to her heart and rested. The meeting of their eyes was not yet to be endured. They came together in a darkness of their own. Gradually the trouble went out of their passion--a stream, no longer broken, but running deep. To Peter it seemed that the tranquil rhythm of the bosom where he lay had never failed. "Why have we waited till now?" Peter softly wondered. "It cannot be true. I have come to you from yesterday." They were together a little longer, shyly approaching the wonder of their meeting, with broken words--fragments of speech pieced out with looks and touches. When Miranda had left him, Peter pondered in her chair the things he had intended to say. He could not now believe they had so wonderfully taken everything for granted. Surely when morning came his peace and joy would vanish. Nothing would remain but his plans of yesterday for a holiday. In the morning Miranda met him as a sensible woman with commonplaces to discuss. She had decided that Peter should carry out his plan for a voyage. She would stay in London, and be ready for his return. Peter demurred: "Why should I go now?" he asked. "I have given all that up." "I want you to go," she insisted. "But you will come with me, Miranda?" pleaded Peter. "I will come to the edge of your journey."