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spectral shape between them. ‘Everything fades,’ she thought. But this would not fade, for it had never lived. They had never meant more to each other than this interchange could give them. This was their reality.

He was gone. He would not come in. He would not obtrude the jarring world of time on the moment of possessed eternity. It was strange to know of this man whom she must judge, condemn, and thrust forth, how deeply, where eternity was concerned, she could trust him.

Voices of farewell were passing along the little path that led to the garden gate and in a moment Norah entered, exclaiming: ‘Why, are you all alone, Mrs. Wilmott? I thought Uncle Godfrey was with you. He must have gone as soon as he came;—what’s the matter with him? My tea-party was rather a failure, I feel, with him and Hester away. Clive has driven Celia off to see the sunset from the hill and she’s dining with you, she says. They asked me to say they’d come back for you.’

Her heart might be broken but it could still rouse itself and even feel again a stir of the fairy-tale as she heard Norah’s cheerful tones. After all, why not? Without phantasy, was not everything moving in that direction? All her standards, all her tastes