"God," he muttered—"and I couldn't either see or hear him!"
"He did not speak, Clive." The boy looked up at her, his haggard features working.
She said: "When I first noticed him he was looking at you. Then he caught my eye. Clive—it was this time as it had been before—when I was twelve years old—his expression became so sweet and winning—like yours when I amuse you—and you laugh at me but—like me—"
"Oh, Athalie—I can't seem to endure it! I—I can't be reconciled—" His head fell forward; she put her arms around him and drew his face against her breast.
"I know," she whispered. "I also have passed that way."
After a few moments he lifted his head, looked around, almost fearfully.
"Where was it that he stood, Athalie?"
She hesitated, then took one of his hands in hers and he followed her until she stopped between the sofa and the fireplace.
"Here?"