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those trees. If there had been a little side-gate it would have been easier to go in; it would not have been so difficult, either, if he had ever been here with Howard Majendie. But this was

    Her place; she had loved it because of the fountains.
    He pushed open the big gate, already cold in the shadow, and followed the upward curve of the avenue among the lemon trees. Beyond the villa disclosed itself, unhke all that he had expected; he was surprised at his own surprise and did not realise till then how clearly he must have visualised it. There was a wide loggia, a flight of steps, a terrace on a level with the loggia running along the side of the hill. Cypress trees rose everywhere, breaking up the view. He passed under the windows, climbed the steps and crossed the loggia, not looking to left or right for fear that he might see her suddenly, or even one of her books. The loggia had an air of occupation; it was probable that on any of those tables, or among the cushions, he might see her book, half open, or the long-handled lorgnettes that Majendie had given her in France.
    The servant said that Mrs. Majendie was in the garden. She showed Stuart into a tall, cool parlour and disappeared to find her mistress. Stuart, distracted by a scent of

    heliotrope, made an unseeing circle of the room; he was standing before a Florentine chest when the girl came back with a message. Mrs. Majendie would see him in the garden. It would have been easier to meet her here; he had pictured them sitting opposite to one another in these high-backed chairs. He followed the girl obediently out of the house, along the terrace, and down a long alley between hedges of yew. The white plume of a fountain quivered at the end, other fountains were audible in the garden below. He could hear footsteps, too; someone was approaching by another alley that converged with his beyond the fountain. Here they met.
    She was less beautiful than he had remembered her, and very tall and thin in her black dress. Her composure did not astonish him; her smile, undimmed, and the sound of her voice recalled to him the poignancy of his feelings when he had first known her, his resentment and sense of defeat—she had possessed herself of Howard so entirely. She was shortsighted, there was always a look of uncertainty in her eyes until she

    came quite near one, her big pupils seemed to see too much at once and nothing very plainly.
    "I never knew you were in Italy,"she said.
    He realised that it would have been more considerate to have written to prepare her for his visit.
    "I came out,"he said,"quite suddenly. I had always wanted to see the Lakes. And I wanted to see you, but perhaps I should have written. I—I never thought... It would have been better."
    "It doesn't matter. It was very good of you to come. I am glad that you should see the villa. Are you staying near?"
    "Over at Varenna. How beautiful this is!"
    "The lake?"
    "I meant your garden."They turned and walked slowly back towards the house. "I hope I didn't take you too much by surprise?"
    "Oh no,"she said. It almost seemed as though she had expected him."Yes, it is beautiful, isn't it; I have done nothing to it, it is exactly as we found it,"

    They sat down on a stone bench on the terrace, looking a Httle away from one another; their minds were full of the essential things impossible to be said. Sitting there with her face turned away from him, every inch of her had that similitude of repose which covers tension. His lowered eyes took in her hands and long, thin fingers lying against the blackness of her dress. He remembered Howard telling him (among those confidences which had later ceased) how though he had fallen in love with the whole of her it was her hands that he first noticed when details began to detach themselves. Now they looked bewildered, helpless hands.
    "I took you at your word,"he said;"I wanted to help; I hoped there might be something I could do, and in your letter"
    "I took you at your