He had been sitting by my couch in the garden; a basket-work chair stood there always for him. Now he got up abruptly, walked away a few steps. I watched him, then thought of my question, a dozen others rising in my mind. It was eleven years since Margaret Capel died and a jury of twelve good men and true had found that heart disease had been the cause of death. There had been a rumour of suicide, and, in society, some talk of cause. Absurd enough, but, as Ella had reminded me, very prevalent and widespread. The rising young authoress was supposed to have been in love with an eminent politician. His wife died shortly before she started the long-delayed divorce proceedings against James Capel, and this gave colour to the rumour. It was hazarded that he had made it clear to her that remarriage was not in his mind. Few people knew of the real state of affairs. Gabriel Stanton shut that close mouth of his and told no one. I wondered about Gabriel Stanton, but more about Peter Kennedy, who had walked away from me when I spoke. What had happened to him in these eleven years? Into what manner of man had he grown? He came back presently, sat down again by my couch, spoke abruptly as if there had been no pause. “You want to know whether I have ever done for anybody what I did for Margaret Capel?” “Yes, that is what I asked you.” “Will you believe me when I tell you?” “Perhaps. Why did you first encourage me to write Margaret Capel’s life and then try and prevent my doing it?” “You won’t believe me when I tell you.” “Probably not.” “I wanted to know whether she had forgiven me, whether she was still glad. When you told me you saw and spoke to her....” “It was almost before that, if I remember rightly.” “It may have been. Do you remember I said you were a reincarnation? The first time I came in and saw you sitting there, at her writing-table, in her writing-chair, I thought of you as a reincarnation.” The light in his eyes was rather fitful, strange. “I was right, wasn’t I, Margaret?” He put a hand on my knee. I remembered how she had flung it off under similar circumstances. I let it lie there. Why not? “My name is Jane.” It came back to me that I had said this to him once before. “You don’t care for me at all?” “I am glad you thought of the intensive iodide treatment. It has its advantages over hyoscine.” “You have not changed?” “I would rather like you to remember this is the twentieth century.” He sighed and took his hand off my knee, drew it across his forehead. “You don’t know what the last few months have meant to me, coming up here again, every day or twice a day, taking care of you, giving you back those letters, knowing you knew....” “You had not the temptation to rid yourself of me again?” “You have grown so cold. I suppose you would not look at the idea of marrying me?” “You suppose quite correctly,” I answered, thinking of Ella, and what a score this would be to her.