Old love reviving may be love of a phantom after all. We can, if it must revive, keep it to the limits of a ghostly love. The ship in the Arabian tale coming within the zone of the magnetic mountain, flies all its bolts and bars, and becomes sheer timbers, but that is the carelessness of the ship’s captain; and hitherto Beauchamp could applaud himself for steering with prudence, while Renée’s attractions warned more than they beckoned. She was magnetic to him as no other woman was. Then whither his course but homeward? After they had taken leave of their host and hostess of Château Dianet, walking across a meadow to a line of charmilles that led to the river-side, he said, “Now I have seen Roland I shall have to decide upon going.” “Wantonly won is deservedly lost,” said Renée. “But do not disappoint my Roland much because of his foolish sister. Is he not looking handsome? And he is young to be a commandant, for we have no interest at this Court. They kept him out of the last war! My father expects to find you at Tourdestelle, and how account to him for your hurried flight? save with the story of that which brought you to us!” “The glove? I shall beg for the fellow to it before I depart, marquise.” “You perceived my disposition to light-headedness, monsieur, when I was a girl.” “I said that I—But the past is dust. Shall I ever see you in England?” “That country seems to frown on me. But if I do not go there, nor you come here, except to imperious mysterious invitations, which will not be repeated, the future is dust as well as the past: for me, at least. Dust here, dust there!—if one could be like a silk-worm, and live lying on the leaf one feeds on, it would be a sort of answer to the riddle—living out of the dust, and in the present. I find none in my religion. No doubt, Madame de Brézé did: why did you call Diane so to M. Livret?” She looked at him smiling as they came out of the shadow of the clipped trees. He was glancing about for the boat. “The boat is across the river,” Renée said, in a voice that made him seek her eyes for an explanation of the dead sound. She was very pale. “You have perfect command of yourself? For my sake!” she said. He looked round. Standing up in the boat, against the opposite bank, and leaning with crossed legs on one of the sculls planted in the gravel of the river, Count Henri d’Henriel’s handsome figure presented itself to Beauchamp’s gaze. With a dryness that smacked of his uncle Everard Romfrey, Beauchamp said of the fantastical posture of the young man, “One can do that on fresh water.” Renée did not comprehend the sailor-sarcasm of the remark; but she also commented on the statuesque appearance of Count Henri: “Is the pose for photography or for sculpture?” Neither of them showed a sign of surprise or of impatience.