“But one July, two years after her death, a patch of gold appeared on the marsh below the hedge—­a patch of the monkey-flower.  Some seeds had been blown thither, or carried down by the stream.

“Next July the patch had doubled its length.

“‘The flowers are travelling towards me,’ said M. Benest.

“And year by year the stream brought them nearer.  That was a terrible July for him when they came within two feet of the signpost; but he would not stretch a hand beyond it.

“’She coquets with her forgiveness, the poor Mademoiselle Henriette.  But I can wait:  ’faut pas deshonorer la patrie a la fin!’

“Before the next July he had made sure of one plant at least on his side of the signpost; and fished beside it day after day, fearful lest some animal should browse upon it.  But when the happy morning came for it to open, and M. Benest knelt beside his prize, he drew back a hand.

“‘Is it quite open?’ he asked.  ’Better wait, since all is safe, for the sun to warm it a little longer.’

“And he waited, until a trout, to remind him, perhaps, took a fly with a splash beneath his nose.  Then, with a start, M. Benest’s fingers closed and snapped off the yellow blossom.

“‘She has forgiven me,’ said he.  Now I can forgive myself.’”

For a moment or two, though his story was ended, the General continued to toy with the stem of his wine glass.  One or two of the guests cried “Bravo!” But Lady Bateson’s eyes were wet, and Dorothea gazed hard for a while into the polished surface of the mahogany before she recalled herself, and, with a nod, swept the ladies away to the drawing-room.

Later, in a pause between two songs, the General dropped into a seat beside her.

“Can you guess who sent me that story?” he asked.  “It was M. Raoul; and he travelled across from Plymouth in the ship with this M. Benest, who happened to get his exchange at about the same time.  It was clever of him to worm out the story—­if, indeed, he did not invent it.  But that young man has genius for pathos.”

“I did not know that you corresponded.”

“Indeed, nor did I. He chose to write.  I may answer; and, again, I may not.  To tell you the truth, I have never been sure if we condemned him quite justly.”

Dorothea found herself able to look straight into the kindly old eyes.

“It was a beautiful story.  Did you tell it for me?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle, in thanks and in contrition.  We are all prisoners in this world; but while it is certain you have made fortitude easier for us, I have suspected that there was a time when I, for one, might have been bolder and repaid you, but stood aside.  Also, I think you no longer require help.”

“No longer, General.  But what you say is true:  we are all prisoners here, or sentries at the best.”  And Dorothea, resting her fan on her lap, let these lines fall from her, not consciously quoting, but musing on each word as it fell: