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“I often wonder what becomes of our old loves.”

It was a lull in her singing, and he seemed unconsciously to utter the thought.

“Is it profitable to inquire?” she asked, her head perched archly on one side, her lips rippling with amusement.

“Perhaps not. Sing that Italian song again.”

“Old loves,” she continued musingly, her fingers lightly touching the keys, “are like the roses of last year, the faint memory of some sweet perfume—a dream that on the whole we are not sorry to have dreamt. No hour of agony is without its moment of peace. It was a kindly thought of yours, Perseus, and one that has something deeper than kindliness behind it. It lays bare your soul, mon ami, and you need not be ashamed of it. Many men are only too ready to forget the women who have ministered