ed mountain
valleys! Then, the remembrance of his rooms at the Temple broke in on
that vision, and shattered it. No Titian's feast of gentian, tawny
brown, and alpen-rose could intoxicate the lover of those books, those
papers, that great map. And the scent of leather came to her now as
poignantly as if she were once more flitting about noiselessly on her
business of nursing. Then there rushed through her again the warm
wonderful sense that had been with her all those precious days--of love
that knew secretly of its approaching triumph and fulfilment; the
delicious sense of giving every minute of her time, every thought, and
movement; and all the sweet unconscious waiting for the divine,
irrevocable moment when at last she would give herself and be his. The
remembrance too of how tired, how sacredly tired she had been, and of how
she had smiled all the time with her inner joy of being tired for him.

The sound of the bell startled her. His telegram had said, the
afternoon! She determined to show nothing of the trouble darkening the
whole world for her, and drew a deep breath, waiting for his kiss.

It was not Miltoun, but Lady Casterley.

The shock sent the blood buzzing into her temples. Then she noticed that
the little figure before her was also trembling; drawing up a chair, she
said: "Won't you sit down?"

The tone of that old voice, thanking her, brought back sharply the memory
of her garden, at Monkland, bathed in the sweetness and shimmer of
summer, and of Barbara standing at her gate towering above this little
figure, which now sat there so silent, with very white face. Those
carved features, those keen, yet veiled eyes, had too often haunted her
thoughts; they were like a bad dream come true.

"My grandson is not here, is he?"

Audrey shook her head.

"We have heard of his decision. I will not beat about the bush with you.
It is a disaster for me a calamity. I have known and loved him since he
was born, and I have been foolish enough to dream, dreams about him. I
wondered perhaps whether you knew how much we counted on him. You must
forgive an old woman's coming here like this. At my age there are few
things that matter, but they matter very much."

And Audrey thought: "And at my age there is but one thing that matters,
and that matters worse than death." But she did not speak. To whom, to
what should she speak? To this hard old woman, who personified the
world? Of what use, words?