The car was stopped at a little distance from the house and Henrietta had to rouse herself from the state between waking and sleeping, thought and imagery, in which she had passed the journey. The jarring of the brake shocked her into a recognition of facts and the gentle humming of the engine reminded her that life had to go on as before. The persistent sound, regular, not loud, controlled, was like existence in Nelson Lodge; one wearied of it, yet one would weary more of accidents breaking the healthy beating of the engine: to-night had been one of the accidents and she was terribly tired. No wonder! She had been trying to run away with a man who did not want her, a man who had a lonely, miserable invalid for a wife, the old lover of Aunt Rose. A little blaze of anger flared up at the thought of Rose; nevertheless, she continued her self-accusations. She had been willing to leave her aunts without a word and they had been good to her and one of them was ill, and the very money in her pocket was not her own. She was shocked by her behaviour. She was like her father, who took what belonged to other people and used it badly. She sat, flaccid, her hands loose on her lap. She felt incapable of movement, but Charles was speaking to her, telling her to get out and run home quickly. She looked at him. She was holding his friendly hand. What would she have done without him? She saw herself in the train, speeding through the lonely darkness; she saw herself knocking at Mrs. Banks’s door, felt herself clasped to the doubtful blackness of that bosom, and she shuddered. “You must go,” Charles said, but he still held her hand. He had brought her back to cleanliness and comfort, he had saved her from behaviour of gross ingratitude, he had been marvellously kind and wise. “Charles,” she said, “it’s awful.” “No, it’s all right. We’ve been to a concert.” “Yes”—her voice sank—“I’ve kept that promise. But the whole thing— and Aunt Caroline so ill. She may have died.” “There hasn’t been time,” he said. “Oh, Charles, it only takes a minute.” “Well, run home quickly. This bag’s a nuisance,” he said, but he looked at it tenderly. How he had dogged that bag! How heavy it had seemed for her! “Look here, I’ll take it home and get it to you to-morrow somehow.” “I don’t want it. I hate it.” He thought, “I’ll keep it, then,” and aloud he said, “I’ll wrap the things up in a parcel and let you have them. Nothing you don’t want me to see, is there?” “No, nothing.” “All right. Do get out, dear. No, I shall drive on.” She lingered on the pavement. She had not said a word of thanks. She jumped on to the step and put her head through the window. “Thank you, kind Charles,” she said. “Henrietta,” he began in a loud voice, filling the dark interior with sound, “Henrietta—” “What is it?” “No, no. Nothing.” “Tell me.” “No. Not fair,” he said. “Just weakness. Good night. Be quick.”