He walked and walked, stopping to lunch at an inn miles away. He could not bear even to see his parents--or the familiar scenes at home; and as once before he had felt in his grief--he and his joy must be alone to-day. When he turned to come back in the late afternoon, the torrent of his wild happiness had crystallised itself into coherent thought and question. Surely she would send him some more words and make some plan to see him. But at least he was in touch with her again and knew she was his own--his own. The silence had broken, and human ingenuity would find some way of meeting. The postmark was Vienna--though that meant nothing at all; she could have sent Dmitry there to post the letter. But at best, even if it were Russia, a few days' journey only separated him from his darling and--his son! Then the realisation of that proud fact of parenthood came over him again. He said the words aloud, "My son!" And with a cry of wild exaltation he vaulted a gate like a schoolboy and ran along the path, Pike bounding in the air in frantic sympathy. Thus Paul returned to his home again, hope singing in his heart. * * * * * But even his father did not guess why that night at dinner he raised his champagne glass and drank a silent toast--his eyes gazing into distance as if he there saw heaven. CHAPTER XXVI Of course as the days went by the sparkle of Paul's joy subsided. An infinite unrest took its place--a continual mad desire for further news. Supposing she were ill, his darling one? Many times a day he read her words; the pencil writing was certainly feeble and shaky--supposing--But he refused to face any terrible picture. The letter had come on the 2d of March; his son had been eleven days old then--two days and a half to Vienna--that brought it to eight when the letter was posted--and from whence had it come there? If he allowed two days more, say--she must have written it only five or six days after the baby's birth. Paul knew very little about such things, though he understood vaguely that a woman might possibly be very ill even after then. But surely, if so, Anna or Dmitry would have told him on their own initiative. This thought comforted him a little, but still anxiety--like a sleuth-hound--pursued his every moment. He would not leave home--London saw him not even for a day. Some word might come in his absence, some message or summons to go to her, and he would not chance being out of its reach. More than ever all their three weeks of happiness was lived over again--every word she had said had sunk for ever in his memory. And away in his solitary walks, or his rides home from hunting in the dusk of the afternoon, he let them echo in his heart. But the desire to be near her was growing an obsession.