Because that was what she had to do. She must forget Henri and the
little house on the road to the poplar trees; and most of all, she must
forget that because of her Henri had let the Germans through.

But Harvey did not meet her. There was a telegram saying he would meet
her train if she wired when she was leaving--an exultant message
breathing forgiveness and signed "with much love." She flushed when she
read it.

Of course he could not meet her in New York. This was not the Continent
in wartime, where convention had died of a great necessity. And he was
not angry, after all. A great wave of relief swept over her. But it
was odd how helpless she felt. Since her arrival in England months
before there had always been Henri to look after things for her. It was
incredible to recall how little she had done for herself.

Was she glad to be back? She did not ask herself. It was as though the
voyage had automatically detached her from that other Sara Lee of the
little house. That was behind her, a dream--a mirage--or a memory.
Here, a trifle confused by the bustle, was once again the Sara Lee who
had knitted for Anna, and tended the plants in the dining-room window,
and watched Uncle James slowly lowered into his quiet grave.

Part of her detachment was voluntary. She could not bear to remember.
She had but to close her eyes to see Henri's tragic face that last night
at Morley's. And part of the detachment was because, after all, the
interlude had been but a matter of months, and reaching out familiar
hands to her were the habits and customs and surroundings of all the
earlier years of her life, drawing her back to them.