Not quite assured of this necessity, and something less than composed, Hilliard presently passed through the house into the large walled garden behind it.  Here he was confusedly aware of a group of ladies, not one of whom, on drawing nearer, did he recognise.  A succession of formalities discharged, he heard his friend’s voice saying—­

“Hilliard, let me introduce you to my wife.”

There before him stood Eve.  He had only just persuaded himself of her identity; his eyes searched her countenance with wonder which barely allowed him to assume a becoming attitude.  But Mrs. Narramore was perfect in society’s drill.  She smiled very sweetly, gave her hand, said what the occasion demanded.  Among the women present—­ all well bred—­she suffered no obscurement.  Her voice was tuned to the appropriate harmony; her talk invited to an avoidance of the hackneyed.

Hilliard revived his memories of Gower Place—­of the streets of Paris.  Nothing preternatural had come about; nothing that he had not forecasted in his hours of hope.  But there were incidents in the past which this moment blurred away into the region of dreamland, and which he shrank from the effort of reinvesting with credibility.

“This is a pleasant garden.”

Eve had approached him as he stood musing, after a conversation with other ladies.

“Rather new, of course; but a year will do wonders.  Have you seen the chrysanthemums?”

She led him apart, as they stood regarding the flowers, Hilliard was surprised by words that fell from her.

“Your contempt for me is beyond expression, isn’t it?”

“It is the last feeling I should associate with you,” he answered.

“Oh, but be sincere.  We have both learnt to speak another language —­you no less than I. Let me hear a word such as you used to speak.  I know you despise me unutterably.”

“You are quite mistaken.  I admire you very much.”

“What—­my skill?  Or my dress?”

“Everything.  You have become precisely what you were meant to be.”

“Oh, the scorn of that!”

“I beg you not to think it for a moment.  There was a time when I might have found a foolish pleasure in speaking to you with sarcasm.  But that has long gone by.”

“What am I, then?”

“An English lady—­with rather more intellect than most.”

Eve flushed with satisfaction.

“It’s more than kind of you to say that.  But you always had a generous spirit.  I never thanked you.  Not one poor word.  I was cowardly—­afraid to write.  And you didn’t care for my thanks.”

“I do now.”

“Then I thank you.  With all my heart, again and again!”

Her voice trembled under fulness of meaning.

“You find life pleasant?”

“You do, I hope?” she answered, as they paced on.

“Not unpleasant, at all events.  I am no longer slaving under the iron gods.  I like my work, and it promises to reward me.”