And while Mr. Brumley’s observant and speculative faculties were thus active, his voice was busily engaged. With the accumulated artistry of years he was developing his pose. He did it almost subconsciously. He flung out hint and impulsive confidence and casual statement with the careless assurance of the accustomed performer, until by nearly imperceptible degrees that finished picture of the two young lovers, happy, artistic, a little Bohemian and one of them doomed to die, making their home together in an atmosphere of sunny gaiety, came into being in her mind.... “It must have been beautiful to have begun life like that,” she said in a voice that was a sigh, and it flashed joyfully across Mr. Brumley’s mind that this wonderful person could envy his Euphemia. “Yes,” he said, “at least we had our Spring.” “To be together,” said the lady, “and—so beautifully poor....” There is a phase in every relationship when one must generalize if one is to go further. A certain practice in this kind of talk with ladies blunted the finer sensibilities of Mr. Brumley. At any rate he was able to produce this sentence without a qualm. “Life,” he said, “is sometimes a very extraordinary thing.” Lady Harman reflected upon this statement and then responded with an air of remembered moments: “Isn’t it.” “One loses the most precious things,” said Mr. Brumley, “and one loses them and it seems as though one couldn’t go on. And one goes on.” “And one finds oneself,” said Lady Harman, “without all sorts of precious things——” And she stopped, transparently realizing that she was saying too much. “There is a sort of vitality about life,” said Mr. Brumley, and stopped as if on the verge of profundities. “I suppose one hopes,” said Lady Harman. “And one doesn’t think. And things happen.” “Things happen,” assented Mr. Brumley. For a little while their minds rested upon this thought, as chasing butterflies might rest together on a flower. “And so I am going to leave this,” Mr. Brumley resumed. “I am going up there to London for a time with my boy. Then perhaps we may travel—Germany, Italy, perhaps—in his holidays. It is beginning again, I feel with him. But then even we two must drift apart. I can’t deny him a public school sooner or later. His own road....” “It will be lonely for you,” sympathized the lady. “I have my work,” said Mr. Brumley with a sort of valiant sadness. “Yes, I suppose your work——” She left an eloquent gap. “There, of course, one’s fortunate,” said Mr. Brumley. “I wish,” said Lady Harman, with a sudden frankness and a little quickening of her colour, “that I had some work. Something—that was my own.” “But you have——There are social duties. There must be all sorts of things.” “There are—all sorts of things. I suppose I’m ungrateful. I have my children.” “You have children, Lady Harman!” “I’ve _four_.” He was really astonished, “Your _own_?”