er to.

But as if answering, Irene shook her head. "You know she couldn't; one
doesn't forget."

Always that wretched past! And he said with a sort of vexed finality:

"Well, we shall see."

He talked to her an hour or more, of the children, and a hundred little
things, till the carriage came round to take her home. And when she had
gone he went back to his chair, and sat there smoothing his face and
chin, dreaming over the day.

That evening after dinner he went to his study and took a sheet of paper.
He stayed for some minutes without writing, then rose and stood under the
masterpiece 'Dutch Fishing Boats at Sunset.' He was not thinking of that
picture, but of his life. He was going to leave her something in his
Will; nothing could so have stirred the stilly deeps of thought and
memory. He was going to leave her a portion of his wealth, of his
aspirations, deeds, qualities, work--all that had made that wealth; going
to leave her, too, a part of all he had missed in life, by his sane and
steady pursuit of wealth. All! What had he missed? 'Dutch Fishing
Boats' responded blankly; he crossed to the French window, and drawing
the curtain aside, opened it. A wind had got up, and one of last year's
oak leaves which had somehow survived the gardener's brooms, was dragging
itself with a tiny clicking rustle along the stone terrace in the
twilight. Except for that it was very quiet out there, and he could
smell the heliotrope watered not long since. A bat went by. A bird
uttered its last 'cheep.' And right above the oak tree the first star
shone. Faust in the opera had bartered his soul for some fresh years of
youth. Morbid notion! No such bargain was possible, that was real
tragedy! No making oneself new again for love or life or anything.
Nothing left to do but enjoy beauty from afar off while you could, and
leave it something in your Will. But how much? And, as if he could not
make that calculation looking out into the mild freedom of the country
night, he turned back and went up to the chimney-piece. There were his
pet bronzes--a Cleopatra with the asp at her breast; a Socrates; a
greyhound playing with her puppy; a strong man reining in some horses.
'They last!' he thought, and a pang went through his heart. They had a
thousand years of life before them!

'How much?' Well! enough at all events to save her getting old before her
time, to keep the lines out of her face as long as possible, and gre