ul wearer. Grizel's dress was gold; it flashed an
opulent orange and red. There was nothing ghostly about it; it was
warm, and human, and alive. It drew the eye with an irresistible
allure.

How could he! How could he! Along the very paths which he had paced
with Juliet. Beside the flowers which her hands had planted! Once
again Katrine suffered the pang, the repulsion. All these years she had
suffered at the sight of Martin sorrowful and lonely, now--mysterious,
but incontrovertible fact!--she suffered afresh at the sight of him
consoled.

Without, in the garden, Grizel was flitting from tree to tree like a big
gold moth, bending her head to drink in the heavy perfume. The curve of
the neck, the curve of the cheek half hidden against the leaves, the
reed-like figure bent low from the waist, they were the very epitome of
grace.

"Martin! Martin! I must have some of these to take up to my room.
There's magic in the scent of red roses... real country roses, living on
their own stems. It has something different from all other scents.
These are the trees which little Juliet planted? How sweet she was that
day, when they were planted, and she was so happy, so dirty, like a
pretty child in her big pinafore! They _ought_ to be sweet!"

Martin winced. He did not reply, but taking a knife from his pocket cut
off one or two of the best blooms, carefully pruning the thronged stems.
For the first months after Juliet's death her name had been continually
on his lips, he had loved to talk about her, to hear her discussed;
later on the reference had become rarer, more strained; now for years it
had been avoided as elaborately as though it had belonged to a criminal,
a prodigal. The young fair face still hung on the walls, but in the
house where she had lived no one mentioned Juliet's name. Only Grizel,
an outsider, talked of her still, naturally, simply, with a transparent
pleasure in the remembrance.

Martin was not sure whether the reference more pleased or jarred. Yes!
he remembered! He should never forget that bright autumn day, the
laughing crowd of spectators, the picture of his girl wife in her short
garden skirt, waving her spade in triumph. He could never forget, but
the personal significance had faded. There seemed little connection
between himself and that boyish bridegroom; it was an effort to realise
that that sweet child had truly been his wife.

The present moment seemed far more real, more v