And she seemed to sit for a moment in the dark church, dreaming of the distant Spring-time, of brooks and primroses and prophetic birds, and of love, young, untried and beautiful. But she did not lay her hand on Sir Hugh's head nor move at all towards him. She sat quite still, looking down at him, like a Madonna above a passionate supplicant, pitiful but serene.
And as he knelt, with his face hidden, and did not hear her voice nor feel her touch, with an unaccustomed awe the realisation of her remoteness from him stole upon Sir Hugh.
Passion faded from his heart, even self-pity and longing faded. He entered her visionary retrospect and knew, like her, that it was too late; that everything was too late; that everything was really over. And, as he realised it, a chill went over him. He felt like a strayed reveller waking suddenly from long slumber and finding himself alone in darkness.
He lifted his face and looked at her, needing the reassurance of her human eyes; and they met his with their remote gentleness. For a long moment they gazed at each other.
Then Sir Hugh, stumbling a little, got upon his feet and stood, half turned from her, looking away into the room.
When he spoke it was in quite a different voice, it was almost the old, usual voice, the familiar voice of their friendly encounters.
"And what are you going to do with yourself, now, Amabel?"
"I am going to tell Augustine," she said.
"Tell him!" Sir Hugh looked round at her. "Why?"
"I must."