“In heaven⁠—out of this house!” With those words she fled upstairs.

Outside⁠—in thanksgiving⁠—at the very door, the organ-grinder was playing the waltz.

And Soames stood motionless. What prevented him from following her?

Was it that, with the eyes of faith, he saw Bosinney looking down from that high window in Sloane Street, straining his eyes for yet another glimpse of Irene’s vanished figure, cooling his flushed face, dreaming of the moment when she flung herself on his breast⁠—the scent of her still in the air around, and the sound of her laugh that was like a sob?