Into the armchair before the fire where she was used to sit, Betty made the little lady now go; and the girl went and sat on a footstool by her knees and talked to her, and entered into the dainty faded mind. She saw, with a little smile, that Miss Flora Jennyns at once fell into a little pose--it was the faded reflection of a portrait that hung on the wall--the picture of a graceful simple young woman who leaned her chin on a pretty slender hand, as she sat wrapt in dreams of sweet sentiment; and slowly, from out the faded lines of the old face and head and pose, there came to her the features and pose, modest and virginal, of the portrait. Whilst Betty made tea for her, she learnt that the little old Catholic lady had been a literary success in her youth--a one-time vogue, who was now fading away in the heroic pride of a gentlewoman’s penury--uncomplaining--amidst a sordid world and harsh needs dreaming of romance that had walked in crinolines--living in a withered garden where were but fragrant fallen leaves.... From that day, the little Miss Flora’s smile became more frequent; and from Betty’s attic the bleak loneliness lifted and went out; for, though the vasty gulf of age divided them (youth and old age can only love each other as in a dream, vaguely), the girl did not find so much time for brooding--she had found a something to mother.... Betty, looking out of her attic window, began to notice that, as twilight fell, a little old gentleman would slowly pace the street opposite; and the little faded old lady, dressed for the road, would go out and meet him, and, after old-world courtesies exchanged between them, she would take his proffered arm and so together they would take their little walk abroad. Betty came to know him, with a smile, as the Man of Pallid Ideals. He would bring Miss Flora to the door always; ring the bell for her; and with elaborate bow and hat in hand, there take leave of her. Nearer to the lady’s room he never ventured, neither being provided with a chaperon.... Betty one day taxed Miss Flora with the charge that she was in love--and loved a poet. And the little withered waxen cheeks blushed. “You shall read his poems, my dear,” she said; and, rising, she went to a little sandal-wood box, opened the lock with an ornate little key, and, raising the lid, let out the scent of the lavender in which was laid a little book of verse amidst other treasures. Miss Flora handed the little volume to Betty; and she, begging her to leave the box open, said she would only read the precious book in that room. Miss Flora kissed her, and went back to her chair.