And there they stood face to face, Anne Ashton and her deceitful lover!  How their hearts beat to pain, how utterly oblivious they were of everything in life save each other’s presence, how tumultuously confused were mind and manner, both might remember afterwards, but certainly were not conscious of then.  It was a little glimpse of Eden.  A corner of the dark curtain thrown between them had been raised, and so unexpectedly that for the moment nothing else was discernible in the dazzling light.

Forget!  Not in that instant of sweet confusion, during which nothing seemed more real than a dream.  He was the husband of another; she was parted from him for ever; and neither was capable of deliberate thought or act that could intrench on the position, or tend to return, even momentarily, to the past.  And yet there they stood with beating hearts, and eyes that betrayed their own tale—­that the marriage and the parting were in one sense but a hollow mockery, and their love was indelible as of old.

Each had been “forgetting” to the utmost of the poor power within, in accordance with the high principles enshrined in either heart.  Yet what a mockery that forgetting seemed, now that it was laid before them naked and bare!  The heart turning sick to faintness at the mere sight of each other, the hands trembling at the mutual touch, the wistful eyes shining with a glance that too surely spoke of undying love!

But not a word of this was spoken.  However true their hearts might be, there was no fear of the tongue following up the error.  Lord Hartledon would no more have allowed himself to speak than she to listen.  Neither had the hands met in ordinary salutation; it was only when he resigned the hat to her that the fingers touched:  a touch light, transient, almost imperceptible; nevertheless it sent a thrill through the whole frame.  Not exactly knowing what to do in her confusion, Miss Ashton sat down on the bench again and put her hat on.

“I must say a word to you before I go on my way,” said Lord Hartledon.  “I have been wishing for such a meeting as this ever since I saw you at Versailles; and indeed I think I wished for nothing else before it.  When you think of me as one utterly heartless—­”

“Stay, Lord Hartledon,” she interrupted, with white lips.  “I cannot listen to you.  You must be aware that I cannot, and ought not.  What are you thinking about?”

“I know that I have forfeited all right to ask you; that it is an unpardonable intrusion my presuming even to address you.  Well, perhaps, you are right,” he added, after a moment’s pause; “it may be better that I should not say what I was hoping to say.  It cannot mend existing things; it cannot undo the past.  I dare not ask your forgiveness:  it would seem too much like an insult; nevertheless, I would rather have it than any earthly gift.  Fare you well, Anne!  I shall sometimes hear of your happiness.”

“Have you been ill?” she asked in a kindly impulse, noticing his altered looks in that first calm moment.