overpowering longing was with her all the time, to get him away with her from England, and see whether the thousand beauties she could show him would not fire him with love of the things she loved.  As a girl she had spent nearly three years abroad.  And Eustace had never been to Italy, nor to her beloved mountain valleys!  Then, the remembrance of his rooms at the Temple broke in on that vision, and shattered it.  No Titian’s feast of gentian, tawny brown, and alpen-rose could intoxicate the lover of those books, those papers, that great map.  And the scent of leather came to her now as poignantly as if she were once more flitting about noiselessly on her business of nursing.  Then there rushed through her again the warm wonderful sense that had been with her all those precious days—­of love that knew secretly of its approaching triumph and fulfilment; the delicious sense of giving every minute of her time, every thought, and movement; and all the sweet unconscious waiting for the divine, irrevocable moment when at last she would give herself and be his.  The remembrance too of how tired, how sacredly tired she had been, and of how she had smiled all the time with her inner joy of being tired for him.

The sound of the bell startled her.  His telegram had said, the afternoon!  She determined to show nothing of the trouble darkening the whole world for her, and drew a deep breath, waiting for his kiss.

It was not Miltoun, but Lady Casterley.

The shock sent the blood buzzing into her temples.  Then she noticed that the little figure before her was also trembling; drawing up a chair, she said:  “Won’t you sit down?”

The tone of that old voice, thanking her, brought back sharply the memory of her garden, at Monkland, bathed in the sweetness and shimmer of summer, and of Barbara standing at her gate towering above this little figure, which now sat there so silent, with very white face.  Those carved features, those keen, yet veiled eyes, had too often haunted her thoughts; they were like a bad dream come true.

“My grandson is not here, is he?”

Audrey shook her head.

“We have heard of his decision.  I will not beat about the bush with you.  It is a disaster for me a calamity.  I have known and loved him since he was born, and I have been foolish enough to dream, dreams about him.  I wondered perhaps whether you knew how much we counted on him.  You must forgive an old woman’s coming here like this.  At my age there are few things that matter, but they matter very much.”

And Audrey thought:  “And at my age there is but one thing that matters, and that matters worse than death.”  But she did not speak.  To whom, to what should she speak?  To this hard old woman, who personified the world?  Of what use, words?

“I can say to you,” went on the voice of the little figure, that seemed so to fill the room with its grey presence, “what I could not bring myself to say to others; for you are not hard-hearted.”