as good as that. She had kept her cab because she was going to
Dover; she couldn't leave the others alone. It was a vehicle infirm
and inert, but Baron, after a little, appreciated its pace, for she
had consented to his getting in with her and driving, this time in
earnest, to Victoria. She had only come to tell him the good news--
she repeated this assurance more than once. They talked of it so
profoundly that it drove everything else for the time out of his
head--his duty to Mr. Locket, the remarkable sacrifice he had just
achieved, and even the odd coincidence, matching with the oddity of
all the others, of her having reverted to the house again, as if with
one of her famous divinations, at the very moment the trumpery
papers, the origin really of their intimacy, had ceased to exist.
But she, on her side, also had evidently forgotten the trumpery
papers: she never mentioned them again, and Peter Baron never
boasted of what he had done with them. He was silent for a while,
from curiosity to see if her fine nerves had really given her a hint;
and then later, when it came to be a question of his permanent
attitude, he was silent, prodigiously, religiously, tremulously
silent, in consequence of an extraordinary conversation that he had
with her.

This conversation took place at Dover, when he went down to give her
the money for which, at Mr. Morrish's bank, he had exchanged the
cheque she had left with him. That cheque, or rather certain things
it represented, had made somehow all the difference in their
relations. The difference was huge, and Baron could think of nothing
but this confirmed vision of their being able to work fruitfully
together that would account for so rapid a change. She didn't talk
of impossibilities now--she didn't seem to want to stop him off; only
when, the day following his arrival at Dover with the fifty pounds