By the autumn shooting time his health was quite restored, and except that
he looked a year or so older there were no outward traces of the passing
through that valley of the shadow, from whence he had escaped with just his
life.

But the three weeks of his lady's influence had changed the inner man
beyond all recognition. His spirit was stamped with her nameless
distinction, and all the vistas she had opened for him to the tree of
knowledge he now followed up. No smallest incident of his day seemed
unconnected with some thought or wish of hers--so that in truth she still
guided and moulded him by the power of her great soul.

But in spite of all these things, the weeks and months held hours of aching
longing and increasing anxiety to know how she fared. If she should be
ill. If their hope was coming true, then now she must be suffering, and
suffering all alone. Sometimes the agony of the thought was more than Paul
could bear, and took him off with Pike alone into the leafless woods which
crowned a hill at the top of the park. And then he would pause, and look
out at the view, and the dull November sky, a madness of agonising unrest
torturing his heart.

The one thing he felt glad of was the absence of his Uncle Hubert, who had
been made Minister in a South American Republic, and would not return to
England for more than a year. So there would be no temptation to question
him, or perchance to hear one of his clever, evil jests which might contain
some allusion to his lady. Lord Hubert Aldringham was fond of boasting of
his royal acquaintances, and was of a mind that found "not even Lancelot
brave, nor Galahad clean." Now all Paul could do was to wait and hope. At
least his Queen had his address. She could write to him, even though he
could not write to her--and surely, surely, some news of her must come.