reply:--

"But, dearest lady, had I followed the footsteps of my Oxford friends,
remember I should not be at Brockhurst at all."

"Clearly, then, everything is well ordered," she would say, folding her
fragile hands upon her embroidery frame, "since it is altogether
impossible we could do without you. Yet I regret for your soul. It is
so capable of receiving illumination. You English--even the most
finished among you--remain really deplorably stubborn, and nevertheless
it is my fate perpetually to set my affections upon one or other of
you."

It followed that Katherine devoted much of her time to Mademoiselle de
Mirancourt, walked slowly beside her up and down the sunny, garden
paths sheltered by the high, red walls whereon the clematis and jasmine
began to show for flower; or took her for quiet, little drives within
the precincts of the park. They spoke much of Lucia St. Quentin, of
Katherine's girlhood, and of those pleasant days in Paris long ago. And
this brought soothing and comfort, not only to the old lady, but to the
young lady also--and of soothing and comfort the latter stood in need
just now.

For it is harsh discipline even to a noble woman, whose life is still
strong in her, to stand by and see another woman but a few years her
junior entering on those joys which she has lost,--marriage, probably
motherhood as well. Roger Ormiston's and Mary Cathcart's love-making
was restrained and dignified. But the very calm of their attitude
implied a security of happiness passing all need of advertisement. And
Katherine was very far from grudging them this. She was not envious,
still less jealous. She did not want to take anything of theirs; but
she wanted, she sorely wanted, her own again. A word, a look, a certain
quickness of quiet laughter, would pierce her with recollection. Once
for her too, below the commonplaces of daily detail, flowed that same
magic river of delight. But the springs of it had gone dry. Therefore
it was a relief to be alone with Mademoiselle de Mirancourt--virgin and
saint--and to speak with her of the days before she had sounded the
lovely depths of that same magic flood--days when she had known of its
existence only by the mirage, born of the dazzle of its waters, which
plays over the innocent vacant spaces of a young girl's mind.

It was a relief even, though of sterner quality, to go into the red
drawing-room on the ground floor and pace there, her hands clasped
behind her, her prou