"Am I going mad?" St. Leon asks himself, with stern, set lips and wildly staring eyes. "She is not of us, as I divine; She comes from another, stiller world of the dead." The tide of years rolls backward. He has forgotten Mrs. Lynn the authoress as if she had never been. This slender, stately woman with her white hand resting lightly on Mr. Ford's arm is a ghost from the past; the dark, uplifted eyes, the tender crimson mouth, the waving, golden hair, are like hers whom, for a little while he believed to be an angel, but finding her only a faulty mortal, he had sternly put away from him. So like, so like, that he cannot take his eyes from the white-robed form with the wide sun-hat tilted carelessly back from the low white brow with its clustering waves of sunny hair, and the white hands full of roses, most of them dewy crimson, as if she loved that color best. While he gazes like one stupefied, they turn and walk toward him. St. Leon is conscious of a little admonitory pinch administered by his mother's slim fingers, and tries to rouse himself to the occasion. In a minute he is conscious of a lamentable failure as he meets Mrs. Lynn's dark eyes upturned to his in calm surprise. She is by far the cooler and calmer of the two, and directly he finds himself walking by her side along the graveled path, the elder couple pacing sedately after them. He is aware that he has not distinguished himself in this meeting with the gifted authoress. His words have been few and incoherent--not worthy of St. Leon Le Roy. He rallies himself with a desperate effort and makes the first remark that comes into his head: "You like flowers, Mrs. Lynn?" is the hackneyed observation. "I love them," she answers, quickly, and he is instantly reminded of another who "loved," not "liked," the fragrant, dewy darlings. "You see, I have gathered almost more than I can carry," she goes on, looking lovingly at the great bunch in her hands. "I called my son Laurie to help me, but he is chasing a butterfly, I dare say, and out of sound of my voice." "Permit me," he says, taking them courteously from her, and at the unavoidable touch of their hands a hot crimson flush mounts to his brow, his heart beats painfully. "I must go away from here, presently," he says to himself, impatiently. "I have no self-possession at all. What a ninny Mrs. Lynn must believe me. And yet--and yet, she is so like a ghost from my dead past that I lose my senses looking on her perfect face!" "We have some very rare flowers at Eden," he says, "I hope you will come and see them since you are so fond of them. You shall carry away all you like." "Thank you. I shall be sure to come," she answers. "I know--I have heard, I mean--that the flowers at Eden are wonderful." "I hope they will justify your expectations," he says. "Shall we sit down here and rest, Mrs. Lynn? You must be tired."