. "I
have stood here and watched them. Sometimes she came alone. What a long
time ago that seems!"

Duncombe's grip upon his arm tightened.

"Andrew," he said, "I can't go!"

There was a short silence. Andrew stood quite still. All around them was
the soft weeping of dripping shrubs. An odorous whiff from the walled
rose-garden floated down the air.

"I'm sorry, George! It's a lot to ask you, I know."

"It isn't that!"

Andrew turned his head toward his friend. The tone puzzled him.

"I don't understand."

"No wonder, old fellow! I don't understand myself."

There was another short silence. Andrew stood with his almost sightless
eyes turned upon his friend, and Duncombe was looking up through the elm
trees to the Hall. He was trying to fancy her as she must have appeared
to this man who dwelt alone, walking down the meadow in the evening.

"No," he repeated softly, "I don't understand myself. You've known me
for a long time, Andrew. You wouldn't write me down as altogether a
sentimental ass, would you?"

"I should not, George. I should never even use the word 'sentimental' in
connection with you."

Duncombe turned and faced him squarely. He laid his hands upon his
friend's shoulders.

"Old man," he said, "here's the truth. So far as a man can be said to
have lost his heart without rhyme or reason, I've lost mine to the girl
of that picture."

Andrew drew a quick breath.

"Rubbish, George!" he exclaimed. "Why, you never saw her. You don't know
her!"

"It is quite true," Duncombe answered. "And yet--I have seen her
picture."

His friend laughed queerly.

"You, George Duncombe, in love with a picture. Stony-hearted George, we
used to call you. I can't believe it! I can't take you seriously. It's
all rot, you know, isn't it! It must be rot!"

"It sounds like it," Duncombe answered quietly. "Put it this way, if you
like. I have seen a picture of the woman whom, if ever I meet, I most
surely shall love. What there is that speaks to me from that picture I
do not know. You say that only love can beget love. Then there is that
in the picture which points beyond. You see, I have talked like this in
an attempt to be honest. You have told me that you care for her.
Therefore I have told you these strange things. Now do you wish me to go
to Paris, for if you say yes I shall surely go!"

Again Andrew laughed, and this time his mirth sounded more natural.

"Let me see," he said. "We drank Pontet Canet for d