Gradually our old friendship was resumed. Gradually he became my constant companion, and the confidence and sympathy and interests of the past seemed to awaken, and be with us both again. I dreamt of no harm. He never by word or look betrayed that he loved me still. I thought it was all over and done with, and feared no danger. I was not unhappy. Sir Francis was very kind, and I had my boy. I troubled myself in no way about what might be said, Keith had been a sort of brother to me so long. We left Rome and came to London. Then it was that he betrayed himself; then it was that I too learnt I cared for him as I had no right to do." "And the Gloire de Dijon roses were left under the cedar tree," murmurs Lady Etwynde, faintly. Lauraine starts and blushes. "Yes, it was that night. I almost hate to think of it, and yet--oh, Etwynde, _can_ I help loving him? _Can_ I tear him out of my heart?" "My dear," says her friend, gravely, "if love were within our power to give, or to withhold, life would be an easy enough matter for most of us. It has been at cross purposes always. I suppose it won't change tactics, even for our advanced age." "Well," sighs Lauraine, wearily, "I did what I could, but Keith made me promise that I would not banish him; that I would let him see me sometimes still; that----" "My dear," murmurs Lady Etwynde, gently, "you were never so foolish as that?" "I was," answers Lauraine. "I--I pitied him so, and he seemed so desperate, and I had done him all the wrong. I am not a bit of a heroine, Etwynde. I have little moral strength, and he promised he would speak of love no more, so-- "So you believed him?" interpolates Lady Etwynde. "Of course, man like, he--kept his promise?" "Until--to-night," falters Lauraine. "When I saw him, when we met as we did, I cannot tell you how awful I felt. It was as if Fate had purposely thrown him across my path when I was most weak, and most unhappy." "And what have you done?" asks Lady Etwynde, pityingly. "I have sent him away--for ever!" "Lauraine, had you strength-- "Oh," says Lauraine, with a little hysterical laugh, "we quarrelled desperately first. He said some dreadful things to me, and I--I don't know if I was not equally hard and unjust. But in any case it was better than sentiment--was it not? The next thing we shall hear is that he is going to marry Miss Anastasia Jane Jefferson." "Lauraine, you are jesting!" exclaims Lady Etwynde. "What, that little American doll who 'guesses' and 'calculates,' and is only a few degrees better than Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe? Impossible! I know she has a _penchant_ for him--at least, it looked like it--but after loving you----"