He saw the thought had flashed into her mind that he did not trust her husband. “Thee knows and cares for Egypt, and knowing and caring make policy easier to frame,” he rejoined. Suddenly a wave of feeling went over her. He whose life had been flung into this field of labour by an act of her own, who should help him but herself? But it all baffled her, hurt her, shook her. She was not free to help as she wished. Her life belonged to another; and he exacted the payment of tribute to the uttermost farthing. She was blinded by the thought. Yet she must speak. “I will come to Egypt--we will come to Egypt,” she said quickly. “Eglington shall know, too; he shall understand. You shall have his help. You shall not work alone.” “Thee can work here,” he said. “It may not be easy for Lord Eglington to come.” “You pressed it on him.” Their eyes met. She suddenly saw what was in his mind. “You know best what will help you most,” she added gently. “You will not come?” he asked. “I will not say I will not come--not ever,” she answered firmly. “It may be I should have to come.” Resolution was in her eyes. She was thinking of Nahoum. “I may have to come,” she added after a pause, “to do right by you.” He read her meaning. “Thee will never come,” he continued confidently. He held out his hand. “Perhaps I shall see you in town,” she rejoined, as her hand rested in his, and she looked away. “When do you start for Egypt?” “To-morrow week, I think,” he answered. “There is much to do.” “Perhaps we shall meet in town,” she repeated. But they both knew they would not. “Farewell,” he said, and picked up his hat. As he turned again, the look in her eyes brought the blood to his face, then it became pale. A new force had come into his life. “God be good to thee,” he said, and turned away. She watched him leave the room and pass through the garden. “David! David!” she said softly after him. At the other end of the room her husband, who had just entered, watched her. He heard her voice, but did not hear what she said. “Come, Hylda, and have some music,” he said brusquely. She scrutinised him calmly. His face showed nothing. His look was enigmatical. “Chopin is the thing for me,” he said, and opened the piano. CHAPTER XXII. AS IN A GLASS DARKLY It was very quiet and cool in the Quaker Meeting-house, though outside there was the rustle of leaves, the low din of the bees, the whistle of a bird, or the even tread of horses’ hoofs as they journeyed on the London road. The place was full. For a half-hour the worshippers had sat voiceless. They were waiting for the spirit to move some one to speak. As they waited, a lady entered and glided into a seat. Few saw, and these gave no indication of surprise, though they were little used to strangers, and none of the name borne by this lady had entered the building for many years. It was Hylda.