The hackneyed phrase would continually ring in his brain of--Never again--never again! Ah! God! it was true he would hold his beloved one--never again. And often unavailing rebellion against destiny would rise up in him, and he would almost go mad and see red once more. Then he would rush away from civilisation out into the wild. But these violent emotions were always followed by a heavy, numb lethargy until some echo or resemblance roused him to suffering again. The scent of tuberoses caused him anguish unspeakable. One night in New York he was obliged to leave the opera because a woman he was with wore some in her dress. Thus, with all his strong will, there were times when he could not control himself or his grief. He had been absent from England for over two years, when the news came to him far out in America of his Uncle Hubert's death. So he had gone to join the world of spirits in the vast beyond! Paul did not care! His only feeling was one of relief. No more fear of hearing, perhaps, some chance idle word. But he remembered his mother had loved her handsome brother, and he wrote a tender letter home. Then something in the Lady Henrietta's answer touched him vaguely and decided him to return. After all--because life was a black barren waste to him--what right had he to dim all joy in the two who had given him being? Yes, he would go back, and try to pick up the threads anew. There were great quiet rejoicings in his parents' hearts at their son's third homecoming. And like a wild beast tamed for a time to perform tricks in a circus, Paul conformed to the ordinary routine. The question of his entering Parliament was mooted again, but this he put aside. As yet he could face no ties. He would do his best by staying at home most of the year--but when that call of anguish was upon him, he must be free once more to roam. Then hope began to bloom in the Lady Henrietta's heart as flowers after rain. Surely this great unknown grief was passing--surely her adored one would settle down again. CHAPTER XXXI But the months went by without healing Paul's grief. Time only coated it with a dull, callous crust. He had got into a hard way of taking everything as it came. He did not fly from society, or ape the manners of the misanthrope; he went to London, and stayed about and played the game. But all with a stony, bald indifference which made people wonder. No faintest inkling of his story had ever leaked out. And it seemed an incomprehensible attitude towards life for a young and fortunate man. Those who had looked for great things from his birthday speech shook their heads sadly at the unfulfilment. So time passed on, until one day at the beginning of February, nearly five years after the light had gone out of his life, a circumstance happened which proved a turning-point of great magnitude. It was quite a small thing--just the brutalised hardness in a gipsy woman's face!