of that barrier. She went more slowly, on heavier, lingering feet. Her
eyes were downcast, and her forehead was furrowed by an anxious,
brooding frown.

The sight of Colonel Grey, waiting for her at the door of the Pavilion,
smoothed the furrows from her forehead and quickened her steps. When the
door closed behind them he caught her in his arms and kissed her. It was
early in her widowhood to be kissed, but she made no protest. She did not
feel a widow; she felt a free woman again. It is even to be feared that
her lips were responsive.

Antony, too, was changed. He was paler and almost careworn. There was no
doubt of his joy at her coming, no doubt that it was greater than the day
before. But it was qualified by some other troubling emotion. Now and
again he looked at her with different eyes--eyes from which the joy had
of a sudden faded, rather fearful eyes that looked a question which could
not be asked. Her eyes rather shrank from his, and when they did look
into them it was with a like question.

But they were too deeply in love with one another for any other emotion
to hold them for long at a time. Presently in the joy of being together,
looking at one another, touching one another, the fearfulness and the
question passed from their eyes.

There was nothing rustic about the Pavilion inside or out. It was of
white marble, brought from Carrara for the fifth Baron Loudwater at the
end of the eighteenth century; and a whim of her murdered husband had led
him to replace the original, delicate, rather severe furniture by a most
comfortable broad couch, two no less comfortable chairs with arms, a
small red lacquer table and a dozen cushions. He had hung on each wall a