'When I first met you, or soon after, a friend of yours--we happened to be talking about you--told me that you had been engaged to be married to a girl named Audrey Blake. He was to have been your best man, he said, but one day you wrote and told him there would be no wedding, and then you disappeared; and nobody saw you again for three years.' 'Yes,' I said: 'that is all quite true.' 'It seems to have been a serious affair, Peter. I mean--the sort of thing a man would find it hard to forget.' I tried to smile, but I knew that I was not doing it well. It was hurting me extraordinarily, this discussion of Audrey. 'A man would find it almost impossible,' I said, 'unless he had a remarkably poor memory.' 'I didn't mean that. You know what I mean by forget.' 'Yes,' I said, 'I do.' She came quickly to me and took me by the shoulders, looking into my face. 'Peter, can you honestly say you have forgotten her--in the sense I mean?' 'Yes,' I said. Again that feeling swept over me--that curious sensation of being defiant against myself. 'She does not stand between us?' 'No,' I said. I could feel the effort behind the word. It was as if some subconscious part of me were working to keep it back. 'Peter!' There was a soft smile on her face; as she raised it to mine I put my arms around her. She drew away with a little laugh. Her whole manner had changed. She was a different being from the girl who had looked so gravely into my eyes a moment before. 'Oh, my dear boy, how terribly muscular you are! You've crushed me. I expect you used to be splendid at football, like Mr Broster.' I did not reply at once. I cannot wrap up the deeper emotions and put them back on their shelf directly I have no further immediate use for them. I slowly adjusted myself to the new key of the conversation. 'Who's Broster?' I asked at length. 'He used to be tutor to'--she turned me round and pointed--'to _that_.' I had seen a picture standing on one of the chairs when I entered the room but had taken no particular notice of it. I now gave it a closer glance. It was a portrait, very crudely done, of a singularly repulsive child of about ten or eleven years old. _Was_ he, poor chap! Well, we all have our troubles, don't we! Who _is_ this young thug! Not a friend of yours, I hope?' 'That is Ogden, Mrs Ford's son. It's a tragedy--' 'Perhaps it doesn't do him justice. Does he really squint like that, or is it just the artist's imagination?' 'Don't make fun of it. It's the loss of that boy that is breaking Nesta's heart.' I was shocked. 'Is he dead? I'm awfully sorry. I wouldn't for the world--' 'No, no. He is alive and well. But he is dead to her. The court gave him into the custody of his father.' 'The court?' 'Mrs Ford was the wife of Elmer Ford, the American millionaire. They were divorced a year ago.' 'I see.' Cynthia was gazing at the portrait. 'This boy is quite a celebrity in his way,' she said. 'They call him "The Little Nugget" in America.'