After he had gone Mr. Elphinstone turned over his manuscripts for a minute or two. Then he looked across at his son-in-law, who was staring again into the fire. "I could take the child to Portsmouth, René, if you wish him to go--and can trust him to me," he said. "I do not know what you feel, but it seems to me that it might be some slight attempt to repay that great debt which we owe on Anne's behalf--and M. de la Vireville was so fond of the child that he might really be glad to see him." René de Flavigny looked up and smiled. "How well you read my thoughts, sir!" (2) On that same remarkably sunny day in late January the old Bishop, in a long black cloak, was walking up and down the little walled garden at Portsmouth under a sky as blue as May's. The forerunners of spring had arrived, and the sight of that vanguard evidently gave him a lively pleasure. He was standing looking at the border when he heard a step, and observed Mme. de la Vireville approaching him. She had come to the house earlier in the day, but he had not seen her. "It is almost spring already, Madame," he remarked to her. "Look at that patch of aconites!" Mme. de la Vireville did not obey him. She came up, kissed his ring, and said with the directness of a child, "It is not spring in my heart, Monseigneur. Your Grandeur knows why." The Bishop may have had the eyes of a mystic, but they were by no means blind to mundane affairs. He looked at her now. "Yes, I know, my daughter. I have been wishing for some time to speak with you of this. You will not feel cold if we walk up and down a little in the sun?" She shook her head and turned with him. At their feet the snowdrops stood smiling and shivering behind little rows of box. "I have just come down from Fortuné's room, Monseigneur. He is no better, this morning--not so well, I think." They took a turn in silence. "Forgive me if I am impertinent," said the Bishop, rather suddenly. "I have been wondering of late why your son has never married. How old is he--forty?" Mme. de la Vireville shook her head with a sad little smile. "Only thirty-five, Monseigneur. As for his marrying, I have long greatly desired it, but he will not look at a woman. He has good reason, perhaps." She hesitated, then went on. "There was one, ten years ago . . . he loved her only too well. She too seemed to love him dearly, and became his affianced wife. On the very day before their marriage she fled from her home with another man, whom she had only known for a week or two. That man was Fortuné's intimate friend." "And then?" asked the Bishop.