and her hand had been crushed in his.

Rush's coming in had brought her back to that tired still body of hers
again; his voice soothed, his presence comforted her; at his occasional
touch she was able to relax. (If only there were some one who loved her,
who would hold her tight--tight--) She hoped he would go on talking to
her; on and on. Because while he talked she could manage to stop
thinking--by the squirrel-like process of storing away all the ideas he
was suggesting to her for consideration later.

But when the respite was over and she lay back in the dark again, she
made no effort to deny admission to the thoughts that came crowding so
thickly. She must think; she must, before the ordeal of the next
breakfast table, have taken thought. She must have decided if not what
she should do, at least what she could hope for. She was much clearer and
saner for the little interlude with Rush.

Suppose in the first place;--suppose that Paula's rebellion was serious.
Suppose the Tower of Brass violated and the Princess carried away by the
_jinn_ or upon the magic carpet--whichever it was--to a world where none
of them could follow her. Suppose John Wollaston bereft again. Would not
Mary's old place be hers once more? Would not everything be just as it
had been during those two years before her father went to Vienna?

But some instinct in her revolted utterly at that. It was an instinct
that she could not completely reason out. But she knew that if such a
calamity befell, her old place would not exist or would be intolerable
if it did.

Suppose again:--suppose that Paula's rebellion could be somehow