It was selfish of her to continue, as she wished to do, a discussion of subjects not remotely connected with any human beings.

She roused herself to consider their exact position upon the turbulent map of the emotions.

Oh yes--it was a question whether Ralph Denham should live in the country and write a book; it was getting late; they must waste no more time; Cassandra arrived to-night for dinner; she flinched and roused herself, and discovered that she ought to be holding something in her hands.

But they were empty.

She held them out with an exclamation.
"I've left my bag somewhere--where ?" The gardens had no points of the compass, so far as she was concerned.