And Lucille?
Had he any real fears of her?
He felt a little catch in his throat at the bare thought--in a moment's singular clearness of perception he realised that if Lucille were indeed lost the world was no longer a place for him.

So his feet fell wearily upon the thickly carpeted floor of the corridor, and his face was unusually drawn and haggard as he opened the door of his sitting-room.
And then--a transformation, amazing, stupefying.

It was Lucille who was smiling a welcome upon him from the depths of his favourite easy-chair--Lucille sitting over his fire, a novel in her hand, and wearing a delightful rose-pink dressing-gown.

Some of her belongings were scattered about his room, giving it a delicate air of femininity.
The faint odour of her favourite and only perfume gave to her undoubted presence a wonderful sense of reality.
She held out her hands to him, and the broad sleeves of her dressing-gown fell away from her white rounded arms.

Her eyes were wonderfully soft, the pink upon her cheeks was the blush of a girl.
"Victor," she murmured, "do not look so stupefied.