“Faithful!” she cried. “Faithful! And you are leaving Vienna to-morrow!” He seated himself on the small portion of the brocade her spreading skirts had left uncovered. His nostrils distended to drink in the perfumed air, and his eyes sparkled; his whole spirit became animated in the congenial atmosphere of a court–a luxurious court. “And I must really die and leave all this,” he complained. He looked at the lady and smiled; but her face was very grave. “Let us walk once more in the garden,” she said, and rose and opened a glass door in the alcove that led into a garden that was very prettily lit by coloured lanterns. She took the Duke’s arm, and they passed along the prim paths between avenues of clipped limes and box bushes. For some while she did not speak; then she whispered– “It is strange to see you at Kensington again, my lord.” Her voice sounded as if it was full of tears. “Strange to think that you must leave again so soon.” She pressed close to his side now, for she no longer wore a hoop; a quilted hood and cloak concealed her head and figure, and he thought that she must wear jasmine somewhere on her person, so strong was the scent of that blossom on the air. “I wonder,” she continued, “if, when you come to die, you will ever think of these moments–the broken promises, the broken hearts?” “When I come to die,” repeated the Duke musingly, “I shall no doubt think of you and your sweetness.” “Not of me and my sadness?” Philip Wharton did not answer; he smiled into the darkness, which he perceived was beginning to be lightened by the first delicate sparkle of dawn. “Have you ever done one good action?” continued the voice at his side. “Oh, Madame!” “Or shed one tear–one tear for another? One tear to heal all the wickedness you have committed–all the grief you have caused?” “Never!” he answered. “Never!” “Is there no memory you can recall that would soften you to tears now?” He answered “None.” Her hand slackened on his arm and was withdrawn; in the confusion of the lifting shadows and the spreading milky whiteness of the new day he lost her. He was alone in the garden. No, not a garden; it was soon light enough to see, and he then noticed that he was walking in an English field in early spring-time. Before him a meadow sloped to a fence that enclosed a little wood; bluebells, daffodils, and primroses grew under the branches of the trees; the meadow was starred all over with buttercups and daisies. To one side of the fence was a small thatched cottage behind which the sun was rising, and where the distance merged into the early blue vapour the sharp spire of a church rose. A slight, very slight, feeling of apprehension came over Philip Wharton. “I do not wish to come back here,” he said. “This has all been a dream, and I will wake up now.” Yet he walked on. It was absolutely still; though the sun had now risen clear of the mists and was glittering in a clear heaven, there was no one abroad.