"Lady Delahaye," I said, as lightly as possible, "you have told me a great deal, and less than nothing at all. Yet I gather that you know more about the child and her history than you have led me to suppose."
"Yes," she admitted, "that is perhaps true."
"Why not let me share your knowledge?" I suggested boldly.
"You carry candour," she remarked, smiling, "to absurdity. We are on opposite sides. Ah, how delicious this is!"
We were regaining the centre of the little town by a footpath which for some distance had followed the river, and now, turning almost at right angles, skirted a cherry orchard in late blossom. The perfume of the pink and white buds, swaying slightly in the breeze, came to us both—a waft of delicate and poignant freshness. Lady Delahaye stood still, and half closed her eyes.
"How perfectly delicious," she murmured. "Arn—Mr. Greatson, do get me just the tiniest piece. I can't quite reach."
I broke off a small branch, and she thrust it into the bosom of her dress. The orchard was gay with bees and a few early butterflies, blue and white and orange coloured. In the porch of a red-tiled cottage a few yards away a girl was singing. Suddenly I stopped and pointed.
"Look!"
An avenue with a gate at the end led through the orchard, and under the drooping boughs we caught a glimpse of the convent away on the hillside. Greyer and more stern than ever it seemed through the delicate framework of soft green foliage and blossoms.
"Lady Delahaye," I said, "you are yourself a young woman. Could you bear to think of banishing from your life for ever all the colour and the sweet places, all the joy of living? Would you be content to build for yourself a tomb, to commit yourself to a living death?"