“Julius, old friend,” I exclaimed with sudden impulsiveness, and hardly knowing why I said it, “it only seems to me that these pine woods behind you are out of the picture rather. They should be palms, with spaces of sand shimmering in a hot sun. And the châlet”--pointing over his shoulder--“seems still less to belong to you when I recall the temples we talked about before the plain where the worship of the rising sun took place----” I broke off abruptly with a little shamefaced laughter: my invention, or imagination, seemed so thin. But Julius turned eagerly, his face alight. “Laugh as you please,” he said, “but what makes you feel me out of the picture, as you call it, is memory--memory of where we three were last together. That sense of incongruity is memory. Don’t resist. Let the pictures rise and grow as they will. And don’t deny any instinctive feelings that come to you--they’re memory too.” A moment of revolt swept over me, yet with it an emotion both sweet and painful. Dread and delight both troubled me. Unless I resisted, his great conviction would carry me away again as of old. And what if she should come to aid him? What if she should bring the persuasion of her personality to the attack, and with those eyes of mischief and disaster ask me questions out of a similar conviction and belief? If she should hold me face to face: “Do you remember me--_as I remember you?_” “Julius,” I cried, “let me speak plainly at once and so prevent your disappointment later.” I forced the words out against my will, it seemed. “For the truth, my dear fellow, is simply--that I remember--nothing! Definitely--I remember nothing.” Yet there was pain and sadness in me suddenly. I had prevaricated. Almost I had told a lie. Some vague fear of involving myself in undesirable consequences had forced me against my innate knowledge. Almost I had denied--her. From the forest stole forth a breath too soft and perfumed for an autumn wind. It stirred the hair upon his forehead, left its touch of dream upon my cheeks, then passed on to lift a wreath of mist in the fields below. And, as though a spirit older than the wind moved among my thoughts, this modern world seemed less real when it had gone. I heard the voice of Julius answering me. His words came very slowly, fastening upon my own. The resentment, the disappointment I had looked for were not there, nor the comparison of myself--in her favour--I had half anticipated. The answer utterly nonplussed me: “Neither does she remember--anything.” I started. A curious pang shot through me--something of regret, even of melancholy in it. That she had forgotten “everything” was pain. She had forgotten me. “But we--you, I mean--can make her?” The words were out impulsively before I could prevent them. He did not look at me. I did not look at him. “I should have put it differently, perhaps,” he answered. “She is not _aware_ that she remembers.”