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 him so long; then he knew that he must leave her to live out her days in the im- munity of finished grief. The silence of imperfect sympathy would still lie between them, as it had always lain; his harshness could no longer cast a shadow in her world, that was now as sunless as an evening garden. His lips were sealed still, and for ever, by fear of her and shame for his dead loyalty to Howard. The generosity of love had turned to bitterness within him, and he was silent from no fear to cause her pain.

"Beautiful," he said, when they reached the pergola and could look down on lake and garden through the clustered roses.

"Will you be long at Varenna?"

"I don't expect so, no. Some friends want me to join them on Lake Maggiore, and I think of going on to-morrow afternoon."

"That will be better," she said slowly. "It is lonely seeing places alone—they hardly seem worth while."

"I'm used to it—I'm going back to India in six months," he said abruptly.

"Oh, I didn't know." Her voice faltered.