And now she was walking along the field-path that slanted from the orchard door to the stile; further and further back, to where young George Waring waited for her under the elder tree. The smell of the elder flowers came to her over the field. She could feel on her lips and in all her body the sweet, innocent excitement of her youth. “George, oh, George!” As she went along the field-path she had seen him. But the man who stood waiting for her under the elder tree was Oscar Wade. “I told you it’s no use getting away, Harriott. Every path brings you back to me. You’ll find me at every turn.” “But how did you get _here?_” “As I got into the pavilion. As I got into your father’s room, on to his death-bed. Because I _was_ there. I am in all your memories.” “My memories are innocent. How could you take my father’s place, and Stephen’s, and George Waring’s? You?” “Because I did take them.” “Never. My love for _them_ was innocent.” “Your love for me was part of it. You think the past affects the future. Has it never struck you that the future may affect the past? In your innocence there was the beginning of your sin. You _were_ what you _were to be_.” “I shall get away,” she said. “And, this time, I shall go with you.” The stile, the elder tree, and the field floated away from her. She was going under the beech trees down the Park drive towards the south gate and the village, slinking close to the right-hand row of trees. She was aware that Oscar Wade was going with her under the left-hand row, keeping even with her, step by step, and tree by tree. And presently there was grey pavement under her feet and a row of grey pillars on her right hand. They were walking side by side down the rue de Rivoli towards the hotel. They were sitting together now on the edge of the dingy white bed. Their arms hung by their sides, heavy and limp, their heads drooped, averted. Their passion weighed on them with the unbearable, unescapable boredom of immortality. “Oscar—how long will it last?” “I can’t tell you. I don’t know whether _this_ is one moment of eternity, or the eternity of one moment.” “It must end some time,” she said. “Life doesn’t go on for ever. We shall die.” “Die? We _have_ died. Don’t you know what this is? Don’t you know where you are? This is death. We’re dead, Harriott. We’re in hell.” “Yes. There can’t be anything worse than this.” “This isn’t the worst. We’re not quite dead yet, as long as we’ve life in us to turn and run and get away from each other; as long as we can escape into our memories. But when you’ve got back to the farthest memory of all and there’s nothing beyond it—when there’s no memory but this— “In the last hell we shall not run away any longer; we shall find no more roads, no more passages, no more open doors. We shall have no need to look for each other.