“It is awfully funny,” he said. “I was _so_ gone on Beatrice when I married her. She had only just come back from Egypt. Her father was an army officer, a very handsome man, and, I believe, a bit of a rake. Beatrice is really well connected, you know. But old FitzHerbert ran through all his money, and through everything else. He was too hot for the rest of the family, so they dropped him altogether. “He came to live at Peckham when I was sixteen. I had just left school, and was to go into father’s business. Mrs FitzHerbert left cards, and very soon we were acquainted. Beatrice had been a good time in a French convent school. She had only knocked about with the army a little while, but it had brought her out. I remember I thought she was miles above me—which she was. She wasn’t bad-looking, either, and you know men all like her. I bet she’d marry again, in spite of the children. “At first I fluttered round her. I remember I’d got a little, silky moustache. They all said I looked older than sixteen. At that time I was mad on the violin, and she played rather well. Then FitzHerbert went off abroad somewhere, so Beatrice and her mother half lived at our house. The mother was an invalid. “I remember I nearly stood on my head one day. The conservatory opened off the smoking-room, so when I came in the room, I heard my two sisters and Beatrice talking about good-looking men. “‘I consider Bertram will make a handsome man,’ said my younger sister. “‘He’s got beautiful eyes,’ said my other sister. “‘And a real darling nose and chin!’ cried Beatrice. ‘If only he was more _solide_! He is like a windmill, all limbs.’ “‘He will fill out. Remember, he’s not quite seventeen,’ said my elder sister. “‘Ah, he is _doux_—he is _câlin_,’ said Beatrice. “‘I think he is rather _too_ spoony for his age,’ said my elder sister. “‘But he’s a fine boy for all that. See how thick his knees are,’ my younger sister chimed in. “‘Ah, _si, si_!’ cried Beatrice. “I made a row against the door, then walked across. “‘Hello, is somebody in here?’ I said, as I pushed into the little conservatory. “I looked straight at Beatrice, and she at me. We seemed to have formed an alliance in that look: she was the other half of my consciousness, I of hers. Ha! Ha! there were a lot of white narcissus, and little white hyacinths, Roman hyacinths, in the conservatory. I can see them now, great white stars, and tangles of little ones, among a bank of green; and I can recall the keen, fresh scent on the warm air; and the look of Beatrice … her great dark eyes. “It’s funny, but Beatrice is as dead—ay, far more dead—than Dante’s. And I am not that young fool, not a bit.