What right had she to have even a crumpled rose leaf! None in the world.
She must get accustomed even to hearing of Michael, and perhaps to meeting him again face to face, since Henry was never to know--or, at least, not for years perhaps, when she had been so long happily married that the knowledge would create no jar.

And at all events, he need not know--of the afterwards--that should remain forever locked in her heart.
Then she resolutely turned to lighter thoughts--her clothes in Paris, the pleasure to see Moravia again--the excitement of her trip to London, where she had never been, except to pass through that once long ago.
The Pere Anselme came to the station with her, and as he closed the door of the reserved carriage she was in, he said: "Blessings be upon your head, my child.

And, whatever comes, may the good God direct you into peace." Then he turned upon his heel, his black eyes dim--for the autumn months would be long with only Madame Imogen for companion, beside his flock--and the sea.
Michael had got back from Paris utterly disgusted with life, sick with himself.

Bitterly resentful against fate for creating such a tangled skein, and dangling happiness in front of him only to snatch it away again.

He went up to Arranstoun and tried to play his part in the rejoicings at his return.