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she asked, panting.
    He held her hands more tightly. “Who knows?” he answered, rising on the wings of his own terrific dream. “Create.”

4
    THE CHARIOT
    O N THE Wednesday before Christmas, Henry had arranged to take the Coningsbys to his grandfather’s house. Mr. Coningsby had decided to give them a week of his Christmas vacation from the preoccupations of a Warden in Lunacy, and Henry was very willing that the chances of those critical days should have so long a period in which to be tested. The strange experiment which he and Nancy had tried had left him in a high state of exaltation; he felt his delight in her as a means to his imagined end. Of its effect upon Nancy herself he found it difficult to judge. She did not refer to it again, and was generally rather more silent with him than was her wont. But his own preoccupations were intense, and it may be it was rather his preoccupation than her own which shrouded and a little constrained her. To the outer world, however, she carried herself much as usual, and only Sybil Coningsby noted that her gaiety was at times rather a concealment than a manifestation. But then among that group only Sybil was aware of how many natural capacities are found to be but concealments, how many phenomena disappear before the fact remains. It was long since in her own life the search had begun. With eyes that necessarily veiled their passion she saw in her niece the opening of some other abyss in that first abyss which was love. Mr. Coningsby had spoken more truly than he thought when he accused Sybil of an irresponsibility not unlike Nancy’s; their natures answered each other across the years. But between them lay the experience of responsibility, that burden which is only given in order to be relinquished, that task put into the hands of man in order that his own choice may render it back to its creator, that yoke which, once wholly lifted and put on, is immediately no longer to be worn. Sybil had lifted and relinquished it; from the freedom of a love more single than Nancy’s she smiled at the young initiate who from afar in her untrained innocence beheld the conclusion of all initiations.
    She stood now on the steps of the house and smiled at Henry, who was beside her. Nancy was in the hall. Mr. Coningsby was telephoning some last-minute instructions in lunacy to the custodians of lunacy who were for a while to occupy the seat of the warden. Ralph had gone off that morning. It was late afternoon; the weather was cold and fine.
    Sybil said, “Have I thanked you for taking us down, Henry?”
    He answered, his voice vibrating with great expectation, “It’s a delight, Aunt Sybil. Mayn’t I call you that too?”
    She inclined her head to the courtesy, and her eyes danced at him as she said, “For Nancy’s sake or mine?”
    â€œFor all our sakes,” he answered. “But you’re very difficult to know, aren’t you? You never seem to move.”
    â€œSimeon Stylites?” she asked. “Do I crouch on a tall pillar in the sky? What an inhuman picture!”
    â€œI think you are a little inhuman,” he said. “You’re everything that’s nice, of course, but you’re terrifying as well.”
    â€œAlas, poor aunt!” she said. “But nowadays I thought maiden aunts were nothing uncommon?”
    â€œA maiden aunt——” he began and stopped abruptly.
    Then he went on with a note of wonder in his voice, “That’s it, you know; that’s exactly it. You’re strange, you’re maiden, you’re a mystery of self-possession.”
    She broke into a laugh almost as delightful, even to him, as Nancy’s. “Henry, mon vieux ,” she said, “what do you know about old women?”
    â€œEnough to know you’re not one,” he said. “Aunt Sybil—Sibyl—your very name means you. You’re the marvel of virginity that rides in the