From the Fontenoy coach Unity, who had not been to Roselands since December, regarded the quiet old place through a sudden mist of tears.  The driveway from the gate was sunk in green; a hundred trees kept the place secluded, sylvan, and still.  Hardly any bloom appeared,—­the flowers were all in the quiet garden hidden by the house,—­but through a small open space could be seen the giant beech tree by the doorstone.

Unity dried her eyes with her handkerchief, and bit her lips until they were red again.  “If you’re nothing but a bird of omen,” she said to herself, “at least you needn’t show it!  Oh, this world!” then, “What if he is not from home?”

In the early winter she had advanced several pretexts for not troubling Roselands, had found them accepted by Jacqueline with an utter lack of comment, and had ceased to make them.  She kept away, and her cousin made no complaint.  What pretext, now, she wondered, would serve to explain this visit?  She thought that pretext would be needed at first—­just at first.  And what if Lewis Rand were at home?

He was not at home.  Jacqueline met her upon the great doorstone, kissed her, and held her hand, but made no exclamation of surprise and asked no questions.  The coach and four, with old Philip and Mingo, rolled away to the stable, and the cousins entered the cool, wide hall.  “You will lay aside your bonnet?” said Jacqueline.  “Such a lovely bonnet, Unity!—­and your blue lutestring!  Come to my room.”

In the chamber Unity untied her blue bonnet-strings and laid the huge scoop of straw upon the white counterpane; then, at the mirror, slowly drew off her long gloves, and took from her silken bag her small handkerchief.  The action of her hands, now deliberate, now hurried, was strange for Unity, whose habit it was to be light and sure.  “Do you remember,” she asked, with her face still to the mirror,—­“do you remember the last time I wore this gown?”

“You wore it,” said Jacqueline, in a trembling voice, “to church, in August—­to Saint John’s.”

“Yes.  That Sunday when all the world was there.  I smell the honeysuckle again, and hear FitzWhyllson’s viol!  That was our last old, happy day together.”

“Was it?”

“Yes, it was.  The very next day the world seemed somehow to change.”

“Isn’t that a way the world has?” asked Jacqueline.  “Change and change and change again—­”

“Yes,” answered Unity, “but never to the same, never to the same again—­”

A silence fell in the room that was all flowered chintz.  Unity, raising her eyes to the glass, saw within it her cousin where she leaned against a chair—­saw the face, the eyes, the lips—­saw the mask off.  Unity gasped, wheeled, ran to the chair, and, falling on her knees beside it, clasped her cousin in her arms.  “O Jacqueline!  O Jacqueline, Jacqueline!”

Jacqueline rested her hands upon the other’s shoulders.  “Why did you come to-day, Unity?  The last time was December.”