herself, in
silent, mysterious, tragical seclusion.

And then he heard the rhythm of a horse's hoofs; and looking forward,
down the green pathway, between the two walls of forest, he saw a lady
cantering towards him.

In an instant she had passed; and it took a little while for the blur
of black and white that she had flashed upon his retina to clear into
an image--which even then, from under-exposure, was obscure and
piecemeal: a black riding-habit, of some flexile stuff, that fluttered
in a multitude of pretty curves and folds; a small black hat, a
_toque_, set upon a loosely-fastened mass of black hair; a face
intensely white--a softly-rounded face, but intensely white; soft full
lips, singularly scarlet; and large eyes, very dark.

It was not much, certainly, but it persisted. The impression,
defective as I give it, had been pleasing; an impression of warm
femininity, of graceful motion. It had had the quality, besides, of
the unexpected and the fugitive, and the advantage of a sylvan
background. Anyhow, it pursued him. He went on to his journey's end;
stopped before the great gilded grille, with its multiplicity of
scrolls and flourishes, its coronets and interlaced initials; gazed up
the shadowy aisle of plane-trees to the bit of castle gleaming in the
sun at the end; remembered the child Helene, and how he and she had
loved each other there, a hundred years ago; and thought of the
exiled, worse than widowed woman immured there now: but it was mere
remembering, mere thinking, it was mere cerebration. The emotion he
had looked for did not come. An essential part of him was
elsewhere,--following the pale lady in the black riding-habit, trying
to get a clearer vision of her face, blaming him for his inattention
when she had been palpable before him, wondering who she was.

'If she should prove to be a neighbour, I shan't bore myself so
dreadfully down here after all,' he thought. 'I wonder if I shall meet
her again as I go home.' She would very likely be returning the way
she had gone. But, though he loitered, he did not meet her again. He
met nobody. It was, in some measure, the attraction of that lonely
forest lane, that one almost never did meet anybody in it.

III.

At Saint-Graal Andre was waiting to lunch with him.

'When we were children,' Paul wrote in a letter to Mrs Winchfield,
'Andre, our gardener's son, and I were as intimate as brothers, he
being the only companion of my sex and age the neighb