"I don't know--not in one way or another--it is everything. There is no life, no movement, no colour, or sunshine--yes, the sun shines, of course, but it is different. Ah, Monsieur Horace, you who have just come back to it, do you not understand what I mean?" "I think I do in a way; but then, you know, coming to England is coming home to me, Madelon, and that makes a great difference." "Yes, that makes a great difference; England can never be home to me, I think. I will tell you, Monsieur Horace--yesterday at that Exhibition I went to with Aunt Barbara, you know, I saw a picture; it was an Italian scene, quite small, only a white wall with a vine growing over the top, and a bit of blue sky, and a beggar-boy asleep in the shade. One has seen the same thing a hundred times before, but this one looked so bright, so hot, so sunny, it gave me such a longing--such a longing----" She started up, and walked once or twice up and down the room. In a moment she came back, and went on hurriedly:-- "You ask me if I have forgotten the past, Monsieur Horace. I think of it always--always. I cannot like England, and English life. Aunt Barbara will not let me speak of it, and I try to forget it when she is by, but I cannot. Aunt Barbara is very kind--kinder than you can imagine--it is not that; but I am weary of it all so. When we walk in the Park, or sit here in the evening, reading, I am thinking of all the beautiful places there are in the world; of all the great things to be done, of all that people are seeing, and doing, and enjoying. I wish I could get away; I wish I could go anywhere--if I could run away--I have a voice, I could sing, I could make money enough to live upon. I think I should have done so, Monsieur Horace, if I had not known you were coming home. Yes, if I could run away somewhere, where I could breathe--be free----" "You must never do that," cried Graham hastily--he was standing opposite to her now, with his back to the fire; "you don't know what you are saying, Madelon. Promise me that you will not think of it even." "I was talking nonsense, I don't suppose I meant it really," she answered; "I could not do it, you know; but I promise all the same, as you wish it." "And you always keep your promises, I know," said Graham, smiling at her. "Ah, do not," she cried, suddenly covering her face with her hands, "don't speak of that, Monsieur Horace--I know now--ah, yes, I understand what you must have thought--but I did not then; indeed I was only a child then, I did not know what I was doing." "I don't think you are much more than a child now," said Graham, taking one of her hands in his; "you are not much altered, after all, Madelon."