The maid retreated quickly, and shut the door.
"Idiot!" Mrs. Chepstow muttered.
She knew the value of a last impression.
She went out on to her balcony and looked down to the Embankment, idly watching the traffic, the people walking by.
Although she did not know it, Nigel was among them. He was strolling by the river. He was looking at the sunset. And he was thinking of the poet Browning, and of the woman whom love took from the shrouded chamber and set on the mountain peaks.