"[...] "And she ceased to love him?" He seemed now to interpret the gaze more fully. Did it not foresee? Did it not entreat-though so proudly? "Ah, I don't know. All I know is that she stuck to him, and that she was miserable. Poor, poor child!" Mrs. Mostyn repeated. "And is she dead?" he asked after a little pause in which it seemed to him that they had thrown flowers on a long-forgotten grave. Mrs. Mostyn looked out of the window at the summer sky and sunny garden, the effort of difficult recollection on her face. "I really don't know-I really can't remember. So soon afterward my husband died; Lady Chanfrey died; I came here to live. I heard from time to time of her misfortunes-of her death I don't think I heard; but for years now I have heard nothing. How many years ago is it? This is '95, and that was-oh, it must[...]."