They looked back with troubled eyes at the wrecked home that had sheltered Arthur Varian’s forefathers and his own saddened youth. How strange that he should thus be recalled to memory again when Cinthia was just getting over their last ill-fated meeting. She read Madame Ray’s perturbed thoughts and feigned indifference, saying: “It certainly gives one a sort of ghostly chill to gaze on the ruins of such a home. Do you remember Byron’s lines on his old home?” repeating softly: “‘Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle, Thou, the halls of my fathers have gone to decay, In thy once smiling garden the hemlock and thistle Have choked up the rose which late bloomed in the way.’” They rode on along the broad, level road, finding always something new to admire, but they did not talk so much or so brightly as before. Their faces were pale and thoughtful, and a shadow had fallen on their spirits--the shadow that always fell when they were reminded of the Varians. Memory was poison to their hearts. “My heart hath but one passion To forget. Ah, is there nothing in the world then To take away the soul’s divine regret?” But when they were returning along the same road, both craned their necks eagerly toward the ruined home which had aroused in them so much painful interest. They looked half questioningly toward each other, and Cinthia murmured: “I--I--should like to walk among the ruins--should you?” “I am always walking among ruins--the ruins of a life’s happiness,” the actress answered, sadly enough; then added: “But yes, we can easily spare time to go through the place. Uncle Rube, are strangers permitted to enter Love’s Retreat?” “Oh, sartainly, mistis. De big gates ain’t never locked. Anybody is free to go in and gather all de flowers dey want. It seem to me like I seen some folkses dodgin’ ’bout de trees when we went pas’, but guess dey’s all gone now. Shall I drive you in at the kerridge road?” “No; you may wait for us here in the shade of these trees while we walk. We will return in fifteen minutes.” They pushed open the wrought iron front gates that clanged heavily to behind them, and turning from the broad graveled walk, plunged into the miniature thickets of blossoming shrubbery, shaking out odors of rose and jasmine with the slightest touches as they walked along toward a graceful little summer-house, heavily matted with rich purple clematis bells starring the dark green of the leaves. “Let us go in,” said Madame Ray, stepping over the threshold closely followed by Cinthia. Then both recoiled with a startled cry. Two young men in cycling suits were in the summer-house. They had slipped in there to hide when they saw a carriage stop at the gate and two ladies entering the grounds.