He, who remembered her in the full glory and pride of her youthful beauty, and who had loved her in it, noted now with keenest vision each change that time had wrought upon it. And as he gazed the old old passion leapt into life again; his heart grew tender and longing, his love of ten years ago awoke from its long slumber, and clamoured for its resurrection. And yet, mingling with this tumult of emotion, overweighing it, and pressing it back, was a strange, intangible, inexplicable power that evolved itself out of a future of unknown presentiment, even as it seemed but the forecast of a dread calamity.
But Philip was not one to be swayed by unseen influences; he shook off the impression of supernatural agencies and resolved to snatch at this one hour, which chance had thrown in his way, and wring from it whatever of joy or sweetness could be gathered from the withered blossoms and crushed buds of the past.
He stood face to face with Patricia once more; might not he, remembering Esther Newbold's pleadings, even now after ten long years of separation, gather sufficient fruit from off the golden trees of past youth and love, to make happy and contented the downward years of life? Could a man stand thus, looking into the eyes of the woman of his life-long devotion, and remain indifferent? Would not any sop from out that gilded past, if thrown to him by her hand, prove of sufficient value to be worth his glad acceptance?
All this time his eyes had never left her face, and she grew restive under the intensity of his scrutiny, flushing and paling, while the hand that held the fleecy drapery about her throat and neck trembled.
"Patty," he said at last, in a voice set in a lower key than usual. "Patty, it is ten long years since we stood thus, alone together. Do you remember the last time we met and—parted?"
She did not answer him at first, but moved away from him some paces, and halted beside the fountain; the marble rim that surrounded the basin was broad and high, she seated herself upon it, and turning her face looked upward at Philip, who had followed her.
Not more cold, or hard, or irresponsive was the face of the boy Narcissus behind her, than was the fair impassive beauty of her face. The springing jet of water had ceased to flow, and only a few drops fell now and then from the upheld vase; they seemed like echoes from the past years falling slowly, slowly, one by one.
When she spoke her voice was calm and composed, though Philip, accustomed to its fuller cadences, caught here and there a flat note in its ebb and flow.
"I find you are as inconsequent and as tactless as ever, Philip," she said; and though she dropped her previous formality of address, his name gained nothing in her using of it. "You were always a sad bungler; fancy reminding a woman of her existence ten years ago! And then expecting her to remember her words and actions at that time! My dear Philip you are speaking of ancient history; why not tell me at once that Queen Anne is dead, and expect me to be astonished? A woman remembers nothing of her past, save her conquests and her gowns. The one tells upon her vanity, the other tells upon her purse."
She laughed again, lightly; and drawing off her glove dipped one hand in the dark water, stirring its surface into a hundred rippling smiles, and scattering the drops in a shower of prismatic spherules.