"I am not going to quote further from that letter, Patricia, and I will only tax your patience a very little longer, while I describe to you two visions conjured up by your appeal. I saw once more you, in your first fresh loveliness and beauty, radiant with youth, transformed by love; and I saw myself, as yet a raw, unfinished, unformed specimen of manhood; the Creighton of a suburban society, it is true, but nevertheless the veriest tyro in the affectations and niceties of town etiquette. You came within my circle, and you charmed me by the sweet graciousness of your beauty, the blue fire of your eyes, the frank candour of your witcheries. And you--you were content to let me play Strephon to your Chloe. And so that vision faded; and when next I saw you in fancy, you came towards me, from out a world of light beyond, from whence came also the echo of gay laughter and light jest; the silks and laces of your dress fell about you jealously, I remember their colour and their sheen, as you crept up to me, trembling. There was no glad exclamation on your lips, no joy in your eyes, no hand held out in welcome; hesitating and uncertain you stood before me, looking at me from under your downcast lids, and drawing one hand slowly over the other. And I, loving and eager, I, a very fool in love, never dreamed the reason of your changed demeanour; no, not until hours afterwards, when the night and the falling rain had cooled my passion. You were ashamed of me, Patty, ashamed of your rustic lover, who came into your presence with a heart on fire, but wearing an ill-fitting coat, and with manners more pronounced and enthusiastic than those of your little court in the room beyond." He stopped and walked away from her a few paces. The woman thus left alone seated on the marble fountain rim, never moved or spoke; only a low cry burst from her lips, smothered as soon as born, otherwise she remained as still and silent as the Boeotian marble god behind her, whose prototype had lived out all the passion and the pain of loving so many centuries ago. The moon above drifted from cloud to cloud, flinging its silver fire down recklessly upon the sheltered nook, and upon the fair woman miserable in the midst of her loveliness. Mr. Tremain turned and came back, he drew close to her and stood silent for some moments; the pity that filled his soul, revealed in his eyes down bent upon her. After a time he spoke, and his voice had regained its usual level tones.