And then, with the suddenness of a rapid river, her coming freedom flowed in upon her, carrying her outside this pleasant enclosure towards all that could be felt to the full only in solitude amongst things whose being was complete, towards that reality of life that withdrew at the sounding of a human voice. It was already from a far distance that, alone with her upon the landing, she promised Mrs. Harcourt remembrance and letters, said good-bye and saw once more her first diffident eagerness; felt that it was she, withdrawn since the first days, who had yet lived her life with her, transferred something of her being into the gathered memories and would keep them alive, keep the mountain scene in sight near at hand. Alone in her room still thinking of Mrs. Harcourt, she remembered from “Ships that Pass in the Night” how on the last day all but one person had forgotten the departing guest. Then in getting up from lunch she had seen them all, unknowing, for the last time—as yesterday the mountains. For all these people hidden away in their rooms, immersed in their own affairs, she was already a figure slid away and forgotten. With the paying of Frau Knigge’s bill her last link with the Alpenstock had been snapped. But when the coach-horn sounded and she went down into the hall, there they all were, gathering round, seeing her off. Hurriedly, with the door open upon the falling snow and the clashing of sleighbells, she clasped for the first time strange and friendly hands, saw, in eyes met full and near, welcome from worlds she had not entered. Beside the door she met Daphne forgotten, who clutched and drew her back into the window space for desperate clinging, and entreaties sounding lest for this new slow-witted lover the searching gaze should not be enough. It was not until she was inside the dark coach and its occupants had thanked heaven she was English and let down a window, that she remembered Vereker. He alone had made no farewell. The coach pulled up outside the post-office and there he stood in the driving snow, and all the way down the valley she saw them one by one and saw him standing in great-coat and woollen helmet, heard his elegant light distressful voice begging her to come out next year. And brighter now than the setting they had charmed was the glow these people had left in her heart. They had changed the aspect of life, given it the promise of their gentle humanity, given her a frail link with themselves and their kind. She climbed into a carriage whose four corners were occupied and sat down to the great journeying. “History repeats itself.” Looking up she found all about her the family from Croydon, met the father’s quizzical brown eyes. “Had a farewell kick-up at our place last night. We’re feeling the effects. _You_ look very fit. Enjoyed yourself?” “I’ve had a splendid time.” “You collared the handsomest man in Oberland anyhow—that young giant of a Russian.” “Italian.” “Bless my soul! Hear that, Doris?”