She watched him in silence for a minute or two. Then she came to the important topic. “So the two children have made up their minds at last.” “Yes, they are to be married on the twenty-eighth of May.” “Poor young things,” said Connie. “Why poor?” “I don't know,” she said 'with a sigh. “The subject of marriage always makes me sad nowadays. I am growing old and pessimistic.” “You are bewilderingly youthful,” replied Jimmie. “Do you know how old I am?” “I have forgotten how to do subtraction,” he said, thinking of his own age. “Yes. Of course you know. It's awful. And Aline is--what--seventeen?” “Eighteen.” “You'll be dreadfully lonely without her.” “Lonely? Oh, no. I have my thoughts--and my memories.” She looked at him fleetingly. “I should have thought you would wish to escape from memories, Jimmie.” “Why should I?” “'The sorrow's crown of sorrows.'” “I don't believe in it,” he said, turning towards her. “What has been has been. A joy that once has been is imperishable. Remembering happier things is a sorrow's crown of consolation. Thank God! I have had them to remember.” “Do you think she is finding consolation in memories?” She spoke with sudden heat, for Norma's conduct had filled her heart with blazing indignation. “I hope so,” said Jimmie dreamily, after a pause. “But she has not so many as I. She loved me deeply. She had her hour--but I had my day.” “If I were you, I should want never to think of her again.” “Not if you were I, my dear Connie,” he said gently. “If either of us was in the wrong, it was not she.” “Rubbish,” said Mrs. Deering. “No. It is the truth. She was made for kings' palaces and not for this sort of thing. I knew it was impossible from the first--but the joy and wonder of it all blinded my eyes. She gave me the immortal part of herself. It is mine for all eternity. I wrote to her a day or two ago--I was not able at first. I could not sleep, you know; something seemed to have gone wrong with my head.” “You wrote to her?” “To tell her not to be unhappy for my sake.” “And you have forgiven her entirely?” “Since our love is unchanged, how could I do otherwise?” “But she has gone and thrown herself into the arms of another man--and such a man!” said Connie, brusquely. A quiver of pain passed over his face. “Those are things of the flesh that the discipline of life teaches a man to subdue. I think I am man enough for that. The others are things of the spirit. If ever woman loved a man, she loved me. I thank God,” he added in a low voice, “that she realised the impossibility before we were married.” “So do I; devoutly,” said Connie. “It would have made all the difference.” “Precisely,” said Connie. “She would have been chained hand and foot to an intolerable existence. She would have fretted and pined. Her life would have been an infinite burden. Heaven's mercy saved her.” “I was n't looking at it from her point of view at all,” exclaimed Connie.