adame; he was so
faithful to the illusions of his youth. As he looked now at her, one
could almost feel the irresistibility of which he spoke.

"It was only their excuse, perhaps; we could not tell at the time; we
cannot tell even now when we think about it. They said then, talking
as men talk over such things, that you were the only one who could
remain yourself under the circumstances; you were the only one who
could know, who could will, under the circumstances. It was their
theory; men can have only theories about such things." His voice
dropped, and he seemed to drop too, into some abysm of thought.

Madame looked into the mirror, where she could see the face of the one
who alone could retain her presence of mind under the circumstances
suggested by Mr. Horace. She could also have seen, had she wished it,
among the reflected bric-a-brac of the mantel, the corner of the frame
that held the picture of her husband, but peradventure, classing it
with the past which held so many unavenged bad dinners, she never
thought to link it even by a look with her emotions of the present.
Indeed, it had been said of her that in past, present, and future
there had ever been but the one picture to interest her eyes--the
one she was looking at now. This, however, was the remark of the
uninitiated, for the true passion of a beautiful woman is never so
much for her beauty as for its booty; as the passion of a gamester is
for his game, not for his luck.

"How beautiful _she_ was!"

It was apparently down in the depths of his abysm that he found the
connection between this phrase and his last, and it was evidently to
himself he said it. Madame, however, heard and understood too; in
fact, traced back to a certain period, her thoughts and Mr. Horace's
must have been fed by pretty much the same subjects. But she had
so carefully barricaded certain issues in her memory as almost to
obstruct their flow into her life; if she were a cook, one would
say that it was her bad dinners which she was trying to keep out of
remembrance.

"You there, he there, she there, I there." He pointed to the places on
the carpet, under the chandelier; he could have touched them with a
walking-stick, and the recollection seemed just as close.

"She was, in truth, what we men called her then; it was her eyes
that first suggested it--Myosotis, the little blue flower, the
for-get-me-not. It suited her better than her own name. We always
called her that among o