Steinmetz rose somewhat ponderously and stood looking down at her.  He did not, however, succeed in meeting her eyes.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “I beg of you most humbly—­most respectfully—­to come through the garden with me toward the house, so that Paul may at least know that you are here.”

He moved away and stood for a moment with his back turned to her, looking toward the house.  The crisp rustle of her dress came to him as she rose to her feet.

Without looking round, he walked slowly on.  The path through the trees was narrow, two could not walk abreast.  After a few yards Steinmetz emerged on to a large, sloping lawn with flower beds, and a long, low house above it.  On the covered terrace a man sat writing at a table.  He was surrounded by papers, and the pen in his large, firm hand moved rapidly over the sheet before him.

“We still administer the estate,” said Steinmetz, in a low voice.  “From our exile we still sow our seed.”

They approached over the mossy turf, and presently Paul looked up—­a strong face, stern and self-contained; the face of a man who would always have a purpose in life, who would never be petty in thought or deed.

For a moment he did not seem to recognize them.  Then he rose, and the pen fell on the flags of the terrace.

“It is mademoiselle!” said Steinmetz, and no other word was spoken.

Maggie walked on in a sort of unconsciousness.  She only knew that they were all acting an inevitable part, written for them in the great libretto of life.  She never noticed that Steinmetz had left her side, that she was walking across the lawn alone.

Paul came to meet her, and took her hand in silence.  There was so much to say that words seemed suddenly valueless; there was so little to say that they were unnecessary.

For that which these two had to tell each other cannot be told in minutes, nor yet in years; it cannot even be told in a lifetime, for it is endless, and it runs through eternity.

THE END