For years she had been so tranquil, and now suddenly, at the flitting touch of the spirit of spring, she knew that youth was slipping, slipping, and that with youth, went romance, enchantment, adventure.

It was slipping from her, and she had never really held it.

She had had only the second-rate; she had missed the best always--the best of life, the best of love, the best of endeavour and achievement.

She had missed the finer reality.

From somewhere, from the past or the present, from the dream or the actuality, her young illusions and her young longings rushed over her, driven by the fragrance of the lilacs, which was stinging her blood into revolt.