They walked into the garden, by the mesh of the garden-paths, the jasmine-vines starring white as they passed. In an adjoining villa a piano was playing; the sounds came to them of Rubinstein’s Romance.
“Listen!” said Cecile, starting. “What is that?”
“What?” he asked.
“What they are playing.”
“Something of Rubinstein’s, I believe,” he said.
“Rubinstein?...” she repeated, vaguely. “Yes....”
And she relapsed into the wealth of memories of ... what? Once before, in this way, she had walked along these same paths, past jasmine-vines like these, long, ever so long ago; she had walked with him, with him.... Why? Could the past repeat itself, after centuries?...
“It is three weeks since you have been to see me,” she said, simply, recovering herself.
“Forgive me,” he replied.
“What was the reason?”