He saw again Michael's grave smile, and heard the tranquil voice, "This place is beautiful in autumn.

Mind you come next when the sea lavender is out." The remembrance of that meeting cut sharper than the actual pain of it at the moment.

He had gone through with it with a sort of stolid endurance, letting Michael see but a tithe of what he felt.

But the remembrance was anguish unalloyed.

For a time he could neither speak nor see.
A yellow butterfly that had waked too soon floated towards them on a wavering trial trip.