"Shall I drive you to your house?" the Duchess asked.

"No, I'll go with you to your door, and walk back to my cell. Home!" he
growled to the footman, with a sardonic note in the voice.

As they drove away, the Duchess turned to him abruptly. "What did you
mean by your look when you said you had seen Eglington drive away from
the House?"

"Well, my dear Betty, she--the fly-away--drives him home now. It has
come to that."

"To her house--Windlehurst, oh, Windlehurst!"

She sank back in the cushions, and gave what was as near a sob as she had
given in many a day. Windlehurst took her hand. "No, not so bad as that
yet. She drove him to his club. Don't fret, my dear Betty."

Home! Hylda watched the shops, the houses, the squares, as she passed
westward, her mind dwelling almost happily on the new determination to
which she had come. It was not love that was moving her, not love for
him, but a deeper thing. He had brutally killed love--the full life of
it--those months ago; but there was a deep thing working in her which was
as near nobility as the human mind can feel. Not in a long time had she
neared her home with such expectation and longing. Often on the doorstep
she had shut her eyes to the light and warmth and elegance of it, because
of that which she did not see. Now, with a thrill of pleasure, she saw
its doors open. It was possible Eglington might have come home already.
Lord Windlehurst had said that he had left the House. She did not ask if