"No, you cannot," she retorted. "Only those who have gone through it can imagine it. Ah! think of pride insulted; ideals smirched; faith trampled on; tenderness turned back on itself!" "I know it all," he murmured. Madame went on, more as if she were communing with herself. "Nature is very strong, very merciful. I had not forgotten! Never, for one moment! But life covered the memory." She paused a moment, sunk in thought. When she spoke again it was in a gentler voice. "Then Jules came, and offered me his companionship. I gave him all I could, and he was content. Oh! the good, true, generous man!" Once more Lord Otford winced; but he contrived to say with genuine feeling, "I honour him." After all, Jules was dead. "And I honour his memory," said Madame, gravely. Lord Otford spoke very earnestly. "We are quite frank, Lucy: you loved your husband; I loved my wife—" "And there is no more to be said," concluded Madame, rising, with a little sigh. "Ah! but there is!" he exclaimed, standing and facing her. "Face your own soul, Lucy, and tell me: did the thought of the old vicarage garden at Otford never haunt you?" She looked straight into his eyes. "Never with any suggestion of disloyalty to Jules," she said firmly. "That I am sure of. But it came. I know." He dropped his voice, came closer, and spoke with deep feeling. "Lucy, Lucy, it was always there! It never left you, as it never left me! It was the fragrant refuge, into which we crept in our solitary moments—never with disloyalty on your side or mine—but for consolation, for rest. Is that true?" "It was merely the echo of an old song—" she murmured, under her breath. "But how sweet! How tender!" "And how sad!" Her strength was going. Every word he said seemed to draw the strength out of her. Her heart yearned to him; her whole soul cried out for him; and only her will resisted. She made one more effort. "No! No!" she cried, "I banished the memories! I banish them now!" "You could not! You cannot!" he whispered, passionately. "No one can!—Think of these two children: Marjolaine and Jack. Suppose we part them now: suppose they go their different ways: do you think either of them will forget the flowing river, the sheltering elm, or the words they have whispered under it? Never!—Lucy, Lucy—" he was bending over her where she sat, and his voice had all the old thrill—"though we go astray from first love; though we undervalue it; yes! though we desecrate it, it never dies!—On revient toujours à ses premiers amours!" But the years that had flown! the unrelenting years! what of them? "We cannot retrace our steps," she said, sadly, "we cannot undo suffering; we cannot win back innocence."