slowly forward and laid
her fingers hesitatingly upon it. All the small records that
constituted memory lay side by side in this worn leather case: her
cheque-books--her letters--the few souvenirs her life had provided.

She raised the flap lingeringly and lifted out the topmost papers.
First to her hand, came a bundle of Laurence Asshlin's monthly reports
from Orristown--boyish, spirited records of trivial doings,
ill-constructed from a literary point of view, shrewdly humorous in
their own peculiar way. These she tossed aside, as things of small
account, and turned almost hurriedly to the papers that lay immediately
beneath. They proved to be her sister's letters, dating from the time
of their parting in London, when Nance had been sent to school. For a
space she held them in her hand, while a curious expression, half
antagonistic, half tender, touched her face; then, with a little sigh,
she laid them down again, without having turned a page.

The next object that she drew forth was the faded telegram that, years
ago, at the time of Denis Asshlin's accident, had brought the
longed-for news that Milbanke was on his way to Orristown. She opened
it, read it, then folded it and replaced it with something of uneasy
haste; and again burying her hand in the recesses of the case, brought
to light another link with the past--a large envelope into which were
crushed a number of things, amongst them the first invitation from Lady
Frances Hope in Venice; a ribbon that had tied a bouquet of flowers on
the dinner-table at the "Abbati" Restaurant; a Venetian theatre
programme; a couple of dry roses that she had worn on the night when
Gore had taken her home from the Palazzo Ugochini. Very slowly she drew
these trophies forth. Each breathed the romance of things gone by; yet
each possessed the poison of present regret. As she lifted up the
roses, her expression became suddenly pained and resentful, and with a
fierce impulse she crushed the dry, brown leaves between her fingers,
flung them from her across the room, and hurriedly lifted the next
object from the writing-case. This last was a large bundle of papers,
tied together with a black ribbon.

Lifting it into the light, she looked at it for a long time, without
attempting to untie the string. It was the collection of her father's
scanty correspondence and ill-assorted business letters, which she had
bound together the night before her marriage--and had never since
opened.