But Anne’s father had taken an unreasonable view of the matter, and carried Anne off to a terrible aunt, who returned one’s letters unopened.  That was the end of Anne Willoughby.

Then, after an interval—­during which one fell in and out of love assiduously, and had upon the whole a pleasant time,—­Anne Charteris had come to Lichfield.  One had found that time had merely added poise and self-possession and a certain opulence to the beauty which had caused one’s voice to play fantastic tricks in conference with Anne Willoughby,—­ancient, unforgotten conferences, wherein one had pointed out the many respects in which she differed from all other women, and the perfect feasibility of marrying on nothing a year.

Much as one loved Patricia, and great as was one’s happiness, men did not love as boys did, after all....

“‘Ah, Boy, it is a dream for life too high,’” said Colonel Musgrave, in his soul.  “And now let’s think of something sensible.  Let’s think about the present political crisis, and what to give the groomsmen, and how much six times seven is.  Meanwhile, you are not the fellow in Aux Italiens, you know; you are not bothered by the faint, sweet smell of any foolish jasmine-flower, you understand, or by any equally foolish hankerings after your lost youth.  You are simply a commonplace, every-day sort of man, not thoroughly hardened as yet to being engaged, and you are feeling a bit pulled down to-night, because your liver or something is out of sorts.”

Upon reflection, Colonel Musgrave was quite sure that he was happy; and that it was only his liver or something which was upset.  But, at all events, the colonel’s besetting infirmity was always to shrink from making changes; instinctively he balked against commission of any action which would alter his relations with accustomed circumstances or persons.  It was very like Rudolph Musgrave that even now, for all the glow of the future’s bright allure, his heart should hark back to the past and its absurd dear memories, with wistfulness.

And he found it, as many others have done, but cheerless sexton’s work, this digging up of boyish recollections.  One by one, they come to light—­the brave hopes and dreams and aspirations of youth; the ruddy life has gone out of them; they have shriveled into an alien, pathetic dignity.  They might have been one’s great-grandfather’s or Hannibal’s or Adam’s; the boy whose life was swayed by them is quite as dead as these.

Amaryllis is dead, too.  Perhaps, you drop in of an afternoon to talk over old happenings.  She is perfectly affable.  She thinks it is time you were married.  She thinks it very becoming, the way you have stoutened.  And, no, they weren’t at the Robinsons’; that was the night little Amaryllis was threatened with croup.

Then, after a little, the lamps of welcome are lighted in her eyes, her breath quickens, her cheeks mount crimson flags in honor of her lord, her hero, her conqueror.