And both looked down, for the first time suffused with shame at discovering their identity. Confusion overwhelmed him, not at their present state, but at the sudden thought of their past lives of indelicacy. He was the first to break the silence, for man, being essentially practical, must at once know more about what he finds out; and an Englishman above all must necessarily investigate his newly-conquered dominion. Perhaps this is the reason for their being such good colonists; they do not gaze long at the stars and sunsets of a new Continent, but very promptly turn to business, and to what they can make out of their discovery. “What have you been doing all these last weeks, Gwen?” She told him what her occupations had been; they were limited, it was true, but they had helped to open her eyes on a few of life’s problems. “Have you been shut up in your room ever since the storm?” “Nearly, with the exception of the day of the first exodus, when I felt I must either have some air, or die. I have been out once or twice since, at unearthly hours of the morning; but this is the first party I have been at—I could not risk meeting you. I had pictured our meeting very differently from what it has been; I dreaded it, and little imagined this would be the end of it.” “No, sweetheart,” interrupted her lover, “you mean, the beginning of our life. Tell me all you did at home.” “I have studied more, my dear Lionel, in these last weeks than in all my life before, including my school days. My books have been the sun rising and setting, the stars and the birds’ twitterings; I have thought of poetry, philosophy, and history—” “Poor Gwen, how dull it must have been! Fancy you studying the works of nature, and imagining that you are a philosopher!” “You are cruel, Lionel.” “Forgive me, Gwen. I am more than cruel, I am unjust, for I am the last who ought to scoff or reprove. I stand here as a repentant sinner, only begging to kiss your hand and to be allowed to gaze on your beauty.” “Lionel, believe me, I thought a great deal.” “Could you not telephone to your friends?” “Telephone! What for, and to whom? When I think of the bundle of wires I used to despatch, and of the trayful of cards and notes the footman was wont to hand to me; each one in view of some Ranelagh meeting, a box for a first night, a Saturday to Monday invitation, and many more important nothings which formed the _epopée_ of my London life! But who would have cared to know of my inner thoughts, of my heart’s desires? We shall have to learn a new language before we can write again, Lionel; for the phraseology that suited the shams of our past life would be inappropriate in our Paradise regained.” “Did you see your father?” “Ah! Lionel, he is the very last one I could have set eyes on! I have not seen him since the Islington Tournament. How long ago that seems. I heard a fortnight ago, through my guide, Nettie Collins, that he only came home on the day of the first exodus!”