His remarks, though spoken in a quiet voice, brought a stunned silence to the others in the room, though only for a few moments to Sir Isambard.

“Resignation accepted. You may leave.”

This further paralyzed the verbal apparatus of the two men of finance so that Gus had actually risen from his chair and was on his way to the door before Lord Cornwallis could speak.

“Washington, a moment if you please. We must not be unilateral,, matter of precedence, full consideration, blast me, I am not sure what! to make of all this.” With an effort he assembled his fractured thoughts and sought for some form of compromise even at this last moment, “We have heard your suggestion and must consider it, since, Sir Isambard, with all due respect, you cannot speak for all the members of both Boards or even for myself or Winthorp. What I would suggest, what I do suggest, sir, is that we here consider what must be done and will then inform you of any decisions reached. If you would tell us where you could be reached at the end of our conference, Captain Washington?“

“I will be in my room.”

“Very good. We will contact you as soon as there are any results to our deliberations.”

Gus left then and the heavy door closed behind him with a powerful clack of the latch and a certain positive finality.

On all sides cheer and goodwill abounded, tastefully clad couples and groups talked animatedly, friends called to one another with hearty voices, bellboys darted through the press in the lobby with messages and telegrams undoubtedly all of a happy, wholesome nature, and such a flood of good spirits encompassed them all that it must surely have lapped up and out of the windows and across the pavement bringing smiles as it went and causing even the gulls on the balustrades to cry with joy. Yet through this ocean of cheer one dark vessel plunged, a man with an aura of great unhappiness about him, cut off and alone, architect of all these glories, and now, in the hour of triumph, set apart from all those who enjoyed the fruits of his labors.

Washington was too depressed to be depressed, too numb for feelings, even miserable ones, lie wafted steadily and calmly with a grave, exterior which in no way indicated the depths of unplumbed unhappiness within him, for the tunnel had be, come his life and without it he felt an empty shell. He was tempted to be bitter towards himself, yet if he had it to do over again he knew he would do the same. The improved route must be used. If saving the tunnel meant a loss in his personal life, then it must be done. Occupied like this, in the darkest of dark studies, he plowed through the crowd to a berth before the lift doors and waited for them to open, and open they did, quickly enough, for this lift was powered by hydraulics with a piston sunk into a cylinder deep in the ground, and he stepped aside so the single occupant could emerge, face to face with him, a chance of fate, a roll of some celestial die that determined that the occupant should be none other than the lady so recently mentioned, Sir Isambard’s daughter Iris.

“Iris,” said he, and could say no more for to his eyes her face and elegantly garbed form were enclosed in a golden nimbus that made detailed vision difficult.

“You’re looking older, Gus,” said she with the eminently more practical vision of a woman. “Though I must say that touch of gray to your hair does add something.” But, practical as she was, it could not be denied that, sure as her voice had been when she started to speak, there was a certain indeterminate waver to it before she had done. At this all conversation ceased and they stood, simply looking at each other for long moments until the boy who operated the lift piped up.

“Lift going up, your honor, all floors if you please.”

With this they stepped aside so others could enter and in that bustle of humanity they were as alone as they might be in a rushing sea. She was as radiant as she ever had been, Gus realized, more beautiful if that were possible with the new grace of maturity. His eyes moved of their own accord down her left arm to her hand and fingers, but there any revelatory vision was blocked by the kid-skin gloves she wore. But she was well aware of his gaze and its import and she smiled in answer.

“No ring, Gus. I still live with my father, very quietly.”

“I have just left him and we have talked. We had most friendly words and then, I am afraid, most harsh ones.”

“My father in all truth.”

“The friendly ones encompassed an invitation to make myself a guest at his home again. The harsh ones…”

“You shall tell me of them later, for just the first will do for now.” With simple foresight she knew that this moment, brief as it might be, must be clutched at and abstracted from the flow of time. What came after would arrive speedily enough, but the passport to social intercourse granted by her father had to be seized and utilized. “Is there no place we can sit for a few moments?”

“I know the very spot,” answered Gus, knowing nothing of the sort, but also now aware that here was an opportunity that might be grasped and, therefore, clutching at it with both hands. He excused himself for the moment and addressed one of the functionaries of the establishment who was stationed nearby, and if a sum of money changed hands this was to hurry the arrangements, which it apparently did, for they were led without further ado to a secluded alcove at the rear of one of the dining rooms where an attendant waiter vanished as soon he had taken their order and filled it with unusual speed. No tea this time, as on their last meeting, for Iris had reached her majority in the meanwhile and was one of the new brand of liberated women who drank in public places. She had a Tio Pepe sherry while he perforce had a double brandy.

“To your good health, Iris.”

“And to yours, which needs it more since you seem to treat health and life with a very cavalier attitude.”

“This last trip? It was necessary and there was little risk.”

“Risk enough to one who sits in the quiet of a London room and waits for the reports.”

“You are still concerned about me?”

“I still love you.”

The words were spoken with such sincerity and truth that they bridged the gap of years as though these years had never existed, they had never been parted. His hand found hers, eagerly waiting, and pressed it beneath the table.

“And I have never stopped loving you, not one moment of the time. May the waiting be ended now. I still carry your ring, here, and have always hoped that I could return it to you some day.”

“And can you now?”

The loosening of his touch, the moving away of his hand from hers told her more surely than any words could what was to be.

“I can, only if you will break with your father.”

“The harsh words you spoke of. Yes, I suppose you must repeat them now, though I wish to heaven I did not have to hear them.” With this she drained her glass and her cheeks glowed with the drink and the power of her feelings. Gus admired her in silence before he spoke again, knowing there was none like her on the face of the globe, knowing he would never love another.

“I have proposed certain changes in the tunnel that will modify and even alter drastically parts, of your fathers plan. We are of different opinions regarding the changes. He feels, and perhaps it is true, that my modifications of his work are a personal attack and after offering me the courtesy of his home he has withdrawn it. That’s where matters now stand.” No power on Earth could have dragged from him the admission at this point that he had also resigned from the tunnel, since this would be crude playing upon her sympathies.

“They stand there indeed and stand very crookedly I must say. Ring for another drink, if you please, because it is not every girl who sees her dreams restored and dashed again all in the space of a few brief minutes.”