When I saw Paul, just for the first minute or so I felt quite startled.  He seemed so marvellously little changed.  He was forty-one, and would have looked young for thirty.  Of course by-and-by I saw there were lines in his face which had not before been there.  I could not say, not talking of appearance but of character, that I thought him improved.  He no longer spoke scornfully to or of Duncan, but was always coldly courteous; yet often I would see a sneer on his curving lips that was more biting and bitter than any words, and made them look evil.  He was not dictatorial all round to everybody as he used to be, but I thought him harsh in particular instances.  His smiles to myself were more rare; his eyes colder:  he seemed to me cynical of all on earth; I feared, too, with keen sorrow, of all in Heaven.

Others spoke of the changes the wear and tear of life abroad had made on Paul, but I had seen his face as it looked—­for the last time on earth—­upon Janet that day, and had my own sad thoughts.

But although I speak of these changes, I do not mean to say that Paul was not as gentle and loving to me as he had ever been, and that I was not exquisitely happy to be with him again.  Many a pleasant walk had we about Duncan’s garden, I leaning on Paul’s strong arm, a support which I felt the need of now.  Twenty years had not come and gone without leaving plenty of traces on me.  We neither of us ever mentioned Janet, my Janet, that is to say.  Janet’s daughter (Janet II., as I used to mentally designate her for convenience’ sake) was here as I expected, and for a while, just as before, I did not take to her.  I left her alone and she left me alone; that was her way.

She was lovely, certainly; ethereally lovely; almost too lovely for one’s senses to grasp the fact that she was but common flesh and blood like all the rest of the world:  a poem in human form if there ever was one.  Gossip had spoken truly for once; there were the three distinguished lovers, and goodness knows how many more besides.

Paul and I never spoke of this girl, any more than we did of my Janet; but, at first, I often fancied I saw his gaze fastened on her; the same unpleasant sneer on his lips which disfigured them when he looked at Duncan.  By and by I grew rather to like her.  I believe I, at heart, resented Paul looking like that at my Janet’s bairn.  I began to fancy that, for all her apparent calmness, she was shy.  If we met in the garden she would give me a swift glance to see if I were going to stop and speak to her, and, I thought, seemed pleased when I did.  At last there came an odd little episode.

Paul was very fond of animals—­that was always one of his good traits—­and he one day found a little stray white kitten somewhere about the place, and brought it into the room where I sat alone at work.  He began grimly to play with it.  Just then Janet opened the door.  She gave a delighted exclamation, and, coming eagerly forward, smilingly held out her arms for the kitten.  She was dressed for the evening, and the little thing began clawing about her lovely gown, and in one instant had pulled to shreds a very expensive bit of trimming.