The waiter intervened and their orders were given. Hildegarde kept up a persistent glitter of talk, leaping from topic to topic, flushed, almost panting in her eagerness to avoid the silent moment. Mrs. Roscombe eyed her quizzically and thought that very little of her skill as a match-maker was necessary here. "We are going driving this afternoon," she said. "Perhaps Mr. Waite would enjoy a ride about Washington." "I--" Potter stopped and looked at Hildegarde. He had no engagement for the afternoon. Not before evening could he see Major Craig, and it might be days before he could manage interviews with the dignitaries who held the fate of his motor in their hands. He wanted to go, wanted to be near her, to hear her voice--to continue to be compelled by her eyes and her manner, by all herself, to disbelieve the frightful thing she had confessed. He could not look at her and believe. "Do come," she said, affrightedly. They finished their luncheon. "The car will be at the door at two," said Mrs. Roscombe. "It's nearly that now. We'll just run up for our wraps." They disappeared and Potter waited. Presently Hildegarde appeared. "Mrs. Roscombe said to get in the car. She'll be down in a jiffy." They waited several jiffies and she did not come. Then a page stepped to the door of the car and extended a note. "For Miss von Essen," he said. Hildegarde opened it, frowned, bit her lip, for she saw through the stratagem. "Mrs. Roscombe says she's detained. Some one just 'phoned her, and she must stay to meet them. We're to go on just the same." Potter was glad, yet he was frightened. He wanted to be alone with Hildegarde, yet he was terrified at being alone with her. Her sensations were akin to his own. She wanted to be with him, to feel him near her again. Her love for him had not abated, yet now it seemed to flame up to a life it had never before known. It was as if he had been restored to her. "I'm--glad," he said, slowly. "So am I," she said, breathlessly. The car started, but where it went or how it went neither of them cared. For minutes they sat silent, each drinking in the knowledge of the other's presence. It was a heady beverage. "Hildegarde ..." he began, presently. She turned her eyes upon him. His face was an accusation; there was yearning there, grief, something else that she could not define, but it hurt her worst of all. "Yes," she said. "You told me you loved me," he said. "Don't ..." she cried. "You told me you loved me," he repeated, harshly. "Was it true?" She would not answer, would not look at him now, but drew away from him fearfully. He took her hand, not gently, and drew her toward him. "Look at me," he commanded. "I want to see your eyes.... When I see your eyes I--" He was going to say he could not believe, but stopped himself. It would be turning the knife around in her wound.... "Were you telling the truth?" "It was true," she said, faintly. "Do you love me now?"