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.