“He was the greatest writer of his time, and she was only a Countess,” said Josephine. “Quite so. But they lived very happily apart, so that it was not such a _misalliance_ after all,” said Clifton. “I suppose it was one of Dr. Johnson’s customary brutalities to say that the man died from that insidious form of heredity known in recent diagnoses as habitual alcoholism.” “The notion is horrid--quite worthy of Dr. Johnson,” said Josephine, making a move as if to rejoin another sparkling group. “Don’t let us separate for a minute yet,” said Clifton. “Though I admit that you are very properly cautious, still there are limits: we have not been together, so that we could talk, for some weeks. Since then I got a letter from you.” “I have been very unhappy, Ernest,” said she, gazing into the distance of the lovely woodland. “Not more unhappy than I have been, my dearest,” said he. “Was that letter of yours calculated to allay my unhappiness, do you think? It made me doubly unhappy because it made me aware of your unhappiness.” “I felt that I could not avoid writing it, Ernest. It would have been impossible for me to remain any longer in the position I was in: I could not carry on the course of deception into which you led me--no, that is going too far; I did not quite mean to say so much.” “Then it was only your own kind heart that restrained you; for you might have meant all that you said and a great deal more. I admit that I was to blame in leading you to make me the promise that has caused you all this unhappiness.” “You were not more to blame than I was. In these matters it is decreed that the blame is not to be laid at the door of one person only. You are a man with ambition--you could not be expected--that is to say, the world does not expect that you should feel the same way as a woman does over such a point as the one which I dwelt on. A secret such as ours was is, I know, a very little matter in the life of such a man as you are. You are, I have heard, the guardian of some of the most important secrets in the world. But in any case a man’s life contains innumerable secrets that are never revealed until he is dead.” “That is quite true.” “A man with a career to--to--cultivate--men cultivate a career as gardeners do their roses----” (They were standing beside a rose bed now.) “And not unfrequently by the same agents of fertilisation.” “Such a man must of necessity come to think more of the great issues of certain incidents than of the incidents themselves.” “That is perfectly true.” He shook his head with a mournfulness that was precisely in keeping with the sadness which could be seen in his expression. “Too true--too true!” he murmured. “Yes, a man loses a sense of perspective----”