“You told me my coming would take you back thirty-three years,” Joan reminded him.  “It makes us about the same age.  I shall treat you as just a young man.”

He laughed.  “Don’t be surprised,” he said, “if I make a mistake occasionally and call you Lena.”

Joan had no appointment till the afternoon.  They drove out to St. Germain, and had dejeuner at a small restaurant opposite the Chateau; and afterwards they strolled on to the terrace.

“What was my mother doing in Paris?” asked Joan,

“She was studying for the stage,” he answered.  “Paris was the only school in those days.  I was at Julien’s studio.  We acted together for some charity.  I had always been fond of it.  An American manager who was present offered us both an engagement, and I thought it would be a change and that I could combine the two arts.”

“And it was here that you proposed to her,” said Joan.

“Just by that tree that leans forward,” he answered, pointing with his cane a little way ahead.  “I thought that in America I’d get another chance.  I might have if your father hadn’t come along.  I wonder if he remembers me.”

“Did you ever see her again, after her marriage?” asked Joan.

“No,” he answered.  “We used to write to one another until she gave it up.  She had got into the habit of looking upon me as a harmless sort of thing to confide in and ask advice of—­which she never took.”

“Forgive me,” he said.  “You must remember that I am still her lover.”  They had reached the tree that leant a little forward beyond its fellows, and he had halted and turned so that he was facing her.  “Did she and your father get on together.  Was she happy?”

“I don’t think she was happy,” answered Joan.  “She was at first.  As a child, I can remember her singing and laughing about the house, and she liked always to have people about her.  Until her illness came.  It changed her very much.  But my father was gentleness itself, to the end.”

They had resumed their stroll.  It seemed to her that he looked at her once or twice a little oddly without speaking.  “What caused your mother’s illness?” he asked, abruptly.

The question troubled her.  It struck her with a pang of self-reproach that she had always been indifferent to her mother’s illness, regarding it as more or less imaginary.  “It was mental rather than physical, I think,” she answered.  “I never knew what brought it about.”

Again he looked at her with that odd, inquisitive expression.  “She never got over it?” he asked.

“Oh, there were times,” answered Joan, “when she was more like her old self again.  But I don’t think she ever quite got over it.  Unless it was towards the end,” she added.  “They told me she seemed much better for a little while before she died.  I was away at Cambridge at the time.”

“Poor dear lady,” he said, “all those years!  And poor Jack Allway.”  He seemed to be talking to himself.  Suddenly he turned to her.  “How is the dear fellow?” he asked.