He was well known. All the servants of the line looked out for him and gave him almost ministerial honours. They knew he was a "somebody," but were all rather vague as to the nature of his distinction. He was "Mr. Gilbert Lothian" at least, and his bountiful largesse was generally spoken of. The train was not due to start for six minutes. The acute guard, raising his cap, locked the door of the carriage. Gilbert and Rita were alone in it for a farewell. He took her in his arms and looked long and earnestly into the young lovely face. He saw the tears gathering in her eyes. "Have you been happy, sweetheart, with me?" "Perfectly happy." There was a sob in the reply. "You really do care for me?" "Yes." His breath came more quickly, he held her closer to him--only a little rose-faced girl now. "Do you care for me more than for any other man you have ever met?" She did not answer. "Tell me, tell me! Do you?" "Yes." "Rita, my darling, say, if things had been different, if I were free to ask you to be my wife now, would you marry me?" "Yes." "Would you be my dear, dear love, as I yours, for ever and ever and ever?" She clung to him in floods of tears. He had his answer. Each tear was an answer. The guard of the train, looking the other way, opened the door with his key and coughed. "Less than a minute more, sir," said the guard. . . . "Once more, say it once more! You _would_ be my wife if I were free?" "I'd be your wife, Gilbert, and I'd love you--oh, what shall I do without you? How dull and dreadful everything is going to be now!" "But I shall be back soon. And I shall write to you every day!" "You will, won't you, dear? Write, write--" The train was almost moving. It began to move. Gilbert leaned out of the window and waved his hand for a long time, to a forlorn little girl in a brown coat and skirt who stood upon the platform crying bitterly. The waiter of the dining-car, knowing his man well, brought Lothian a large whiskey and soda before the long train was free of the sordid Northwest suburbs. Lothian drank it, arranged about dinner, and sank back against the cushions. He lit a cigarette and drew the hot smoke deep into his lungs. The train was out of the town area now. There was no more jolting and rattling over points. Its progress into the gathering night was a continuous roar. Onwards through the gathering night. . . . "_I'd be your wife, Gilbert, and I'd love you--if you were free._" CHAPTER V THE NIGHT JOURNEY FROM NICE WHEN MRS. DALY SPEAKS WORDS OF FIRE "Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud, It is but for a time; I press God's lamp Close to my breast: its splendour, soon or late Shall pierce the gloom. I shall emerge one day." --_Browning._ A carriage was waiting outside a white and gilded hotel on the Promenade des Anglais at Nice.