uce, of New York City,
married Georges Vicomte de Morteyn. That was long ago.

The chess-table stood on the terrace in the shadow of the
flower-crowned parapets; the old vicomte sat opposite his wife,
one hand touching the black knight, one foot propped up on a pile
of cushions. He pushed the knight slowly from square to square
and twisted his white imperial with stiff fingers.

"Helen," he asked, mildly, "are you bored?"

"No, dear."

Madame de Morteyn smiled at her husband and lifted a pawn in her
thin, blue-veined hand; but the vicomte had not finished, and she
replaced the pawn and leaned back in her chair, moving the two
little coffee-cups aside so that she could see what her husband
was doing with the knight.

From the lawn below came the chatter and laughter of girls. On
the edge of the lawn the little river Lisse glided noiselessly
towards the beech woods, whose depths, saturated with sunshine,
rang with the mellow notes of nesting thrushes.

The middle of July had found the leaves as fresh and tender as
when they opened in May, the willow's silver green cooled the
richer verdure of beach and sycamore; the round poplar leaves,
pale yellow and orange in the sunlight, hung brilliant as lighted
lanterns where the sun burned through.

"Helen?"

"Dear?"

"I am not at all certain what to do with my queen's knight. May I
have another cup of coffee?"

Madame de Morteyn poured the coffee from the little silver
coffee-pot.

"It is hot; be careful, dear."

The vicomte sipped his coffee, looking at her with faded eyes.
She knew what he was going to say; it was always the same, and
her answer was always the same. And always, as at that first
breakfast--their wedding-breakfast--her pale cheeks bloomed again
with a subtle colour, the ghost of roses long dead.

"Helen, are you thinking of that morning?"

"Yes, Georges."

"Of our wedding-breakfast--here--at this same table?"

"Yes, Georges."

The vicomte set his cup back in the saucer and, trembling, poured
a pale, golden liquid from a decanter into two tiny glasses.

"A glass of wine?--I have the honour, my dear--"

The colour touched her cheeks as their glasses met; the still air
tinkled with the melody of crystal touching crystal; a golden
drop fell from the brimming glasses. The young people on the lawn
below were very noisy.

She placed her empty glass on the table; the delicate glow in her
cheeks faded as skies fade at twilight. He, with grave