Fay, whose attention had been adroitly diverted to other channels, had never wondered how he took their separation at the time.
Now that she saw him again she was aware that he had taken it--to heart.
During that sleepless night Fay persuaded herself that Michael had not been alone in his suffering.

She also had felt the parting with equal poignancy.
They met again a few days later by chance in an old cloistered, deserted garden.

How often she had walked in that garden as she was doing now with English friends! His presence gave the place its true significance.
They met as those who have between them the bond of a common sorrow.
"And what have you been doing all these four years ?" she asked him, as they wandered somewhat apart.
"I have been working." "You never came to say good-bye before you went to that place in Germany to study." "I was told I had better not come." "I suppose grandmamma told you that." "She did, most kindly and wisely." A pause.
She was leaning in the still May sunshine against an old grey tomb of carved stone.

Two angels with spread wings upheld the defaced inscription.

Above it, over it, round it, like desire impotently defying death, a flood of red roses clambered and clung.