The intoxication and the madness were gone. Fear had come. Any moment they might guess. With fear came contrition: she would idolize her husband more, till he became for her the man he was not. Next morning she surprised Nan by announcing that she was homesick for Ocky, that her things were packed and she would return to Sand-port at once. There was no dissuading her. In her heart she had determined to wipe out her faithlessness by educating her husband into largeness by love. When the train had moved out of the station Billy stared at Nan puzzled. “Really does look as if she'd grown fond of him! Eh what?” Nan squeezed his arm. “Perhaps she always was fond of him and we were sceptics.” “She may be now. She wasn't.” “Is it because he's got money?” “Does make a difference, doesn't it?” Nan pressed against him and looked up laughing. “Between you and me it wouldn't.” “Think not?” “Never.” Hidden in a cab, he caught her to him. “You darling!” She held him from her, blushing. “But why now? What's this for?” “Jehane makes me thankful for what I've got.” That evening a man moved along the Terrace, halted as though he were minded to turn back, moved on and at last knocked at Barrington's door. While he waited he mopped his forehead; his manner was furtive. Once inside the hall he became important, handing his card with a flourish. Left alone while the maid announced his presence, he fiddled with his necktie and twisted his soaped mustaches. Barrington burst in on him. “Anything the matter, old man?” “Matter? 'Course not.” “Didn't you know that Jehane went home this morning?” “Got your telegram just as I was leaving. Had business in London. Couldn't put it off.” “Must have been important. She'll be disappointed.” “It was.” “Suppose it's too late for you to start to-night?” Barrington pulled out his watch. “Humph! Stop with us, won't you?--Had dinner?--All right. Let's go out. Nan's in the garden.” What was it that had brought him? Barrington kept asking himself that question. As usual, Ocky was voluble and plausible, but---- His high spirits were forced; he avoided the eye when watched. He rattled on about the possibilities of Sandport. He talked of the friends he had made--men whom Barrington guessed to be of no importance. He repeated his friends' hilarious stories, “Here's a good one John told me----” It was Ocky who discovered the humor in the story and laughed. Trees grew more dense against the dark. Lights in houses were extinguished. The roar of London, like a voice wearied of quarreling, which mumbled vexatiously in a last retort, sank away into silence. But this tireless voice at his side went on, babbling of nothing, talking and talking. Nan rose. “I'm sleepy. You'll excuse me, won't you? Billy, darling, don't be long.” Ocky refilled his foul pipe--with a pipe between his teeth he felt fortified.