"But, as he retires among the last red leaves of the year, and walks jauntily down the forest rides as the setting sun shows the trees already bare, he will know one thing, even if Spring does not know it then--when she turns to her Partner. "He will know that in her future life, his voice, his face, can never be quite forgotten. Sometimes, at the feast, 'surgit amari aliquid' that he is not present there with the wistful glance, the hands that were ever reverent, the old familiar keys! "For a brief instant of recollection, he will have for you '_L'effet d'un clair-de-lune par une nuit d'été'_. And you will say to yourself, '_Ami du temps passés, vos paroles me reviennent comme un écho lointain, comme le son d'un cloche apporté par le vent; et il me semble que vous êtes là quand je lis des passages d'amour dans vos livres_'." A click of glass against glass, the low sound of drinking, a black shadow parodied and repeated upon the ceiling in the candle-glow. The letter is nearly finished now--the bottle is nearly empty. "'Tiens!' I hear you say--by the way, Rita, where did you learn to speak such perfect French? They tell me in Paris and, Mon Dieu! in Tours even! that I speak well. Mais, toi! . . . "Well 'How stupid!' I hear you say. 'Why does Gilbert strike this note of the 'cello and the big sobbing flutes at the very beginning of things?' "Why, indeed? I hardly know myself. But it is very late now. The curtains of the dark are already shaken by the birth-pangs of the morning. Soon the jocund noises of dawn will begin. "Let it be so for you and me. There are long and happy days coming in our friendship. The end is not yet! Soon, quite soon, I will return to London with a pocket-full of plans for pleasure, and the magician's wand polished like the poker in the best parlour of an evangelical household, and charged with the most superior magic! "Meanwhile I shall write you my thoughts as you must send me yours. "I kiss your hand, "GILBERT LOTHIAN." The figure rose from the bed, gathering the papers together, putting them into a drawer of the dressing-table. It staggered a little. "I'm drunk," came in a tired voice, from lips that were parched and dry. With trembling hands the empty bottle was hidden, the glass washed out and replaced, the door noiselessly unlocked. Then Lothian lurched to the open window. It was as he had said, dawn was at hand. But a thick grey mist hid everything. Phantoms seemed to sway in it, speaking to each other with tiny doll-like squeaks. There were no jocund noises as he crept back into bed and fell into a stupor, snoring loudly. No jocund noises of Dawn. CHAPTER IV DICKSON INGWORTH UNDER THE MICROSCOPE "On n'est jamais trahi que par ses siens." --_Proverb of Provence._ Lothian and Dickson Ingworth were driving into Wordingham.