Hamil stood inspecting Malcourt's name, finding it impossible to realise that he was dead--or for that matter, unable to comprehend death at all. The newly chiselled letters seemed vaguely instinct with something of Malcourt's own clean-cut irony; they appeared to challenge him with their mocking legend of death, daring him, with sly malice, to credit the inscription. To look at them became almost an effort, so white and clear they stared back at him--as though the pallid face of the dead himself, set for ever in raillery, was on the watch to detect false sentiment and delight in it. And Hamil's eyes fell uneasily upon the flowers, then lifted. And he said aloud, unconsciously: "You are right; it's too late, Malcourt." There was a shabby, neglected grave in the adjoining plot; he bent over, gathered up his flowers, and laid them on the slab of somebody aged ninety-three whose name was blotted out by wet dead leaves. Then he slowly returned to face Malcourt, and stood musing, gloved hands deep in his overcoat pockets. "If I could have understood you--" he began, under his breath, then fell silent. A few moments later he uncovered. It was snowing heavily when he turned to leave; and he stood back and aside, hat in hand, to permit a young woman to pass the iron gateway--a slim figure in black, heavy veil drawn, arms piled high with lilies. He knew her at once and she knew him. "I think you are Mr. Hamil," she said timidly. "You are Miss Wilming?" he said in his naturally pleasant voice, which brought old memories crowding upon her and a pale flush to her cheeks. There was a moment's silence; she dropped some flowers and he recovered them for her. Then she knelt down in the sleet, unconscious of it, and laid the flowers on the mound, arranging them with great care, while the thickening snow pelted her and began to veil the white blossoms on the grave. Hamil hesitated after the girl had risen, and, presently, as she did not stir, he quietly asked if he might be of any use to her. At first she made no reply, and her gaze remained remote; then, turning: "Was he your friend?" she asked wistfully. "I think he meant to be." "You quarrelled--down there--in the South"--she made a vague gesture toward the gray horizon. "Do you remember that night, Mr. Hamil?" "Yes." "Did you ever become friends again?" "No.... I think he meant to be.... The fault was probably mine. I misunderstood." She said: "I know he cared a great deal for you." The man was silent. She turned directly toward him, pale, clear-eyed, and in the poise of her head a faint touch of pride. "Please do not misunderstand his friendship for me, then. If you were his friend I would not need to say this. He was very kind to me, Mr. Hamil." "I do not doubt it," said Hamil gravely. "And you do not mistake, what I say?" He looked her in the eyes, curious--and, in a moment, convinced.