She waved a hand and vanished. Her hurried orders to the domestics came in the natural sequence of things, and caused no surprise. When she drove away from the house at twenty minutes of seven every member of her establishment believed that Mrs. Marten had gone to join her father in New York, but, for some reason communicated by her "cousin," was traveling by the first train of the day instead of the second. The only perplexed person left in "The Breakers" was Julie, the French maid, who thought she would find a holiday in Newport dull, and was, moreover, genuinely concerned because of the scanty wardrobe which her mistress had taken. Oddly enough, Power, waiting with stoic anxiety outside the New York, New Haven & Hartford station, shared some part of Julie's thought when he saw Nancy's two small steamer trunks and a hatbox. "Well!" he cried, helping her to alight. "Here have I been worrying about the capacity of the cab to hold your baggage, and you bring less than I!" "Pay the man," she said quietly. Then, under cover of the approach of a porter with a creaking barrow, she added, "I am coming to you penniless and plainly clad as ever was Nancy Willard. You wish that, don't you?" "You dear!" he breathed; but she had her full answer in the color that suffused his bronzed face and the light that blazed in his eyes. He had experienced no difficulty in securing the small coupé of a Pullman car to Boston. In that train there was little likelihood of any chance passenger recognizing them. In actual fact, they had the whole car to themselves. Nancy, who could not banish the notion that the whole world was watching her, was nervous and ill at ease until the train pulled out of the station. She even started and flushed violently when the conductor came to examine their tickets, whereupon the man smiled discreetly and Power laughed. "You're the poorest sort of conspirator," he said, when the door was closed on the intruder. "We had better admit straight away that we're a honeymoon couple, because everybody will know it the instant they look at you." But he failed to charm away the terror that oppressed her spirit. She felt herself a fugitive from some unseen but awful vengeance, and her heart quailed. "Derry," she said, almost on the verge of tears, "I'm beginning to be afraid." "Afraid of what?" Somehow, despite his utter lack of experience of woman's ways, he had guessed that this moment would arrive, and was, to that extent, prepared for it. "Of everything. I--I know that I alone am to blame. It is not too late for you to draw back." "Why do you think I might wish to draw back?" "Because of the horrid exposure you must face in the near future." "My only trouble is that I may not bear your share as well as my own, Nancy. The combined burden would lie light as thistledown on my shoulders. Let us be true to ourselves, and it will surprise you to find how readily the world, our world, will accept our view."