’I pass from one thing to another.  Sometimes it’s Omar Khayyam—­“One thing is certain and the rest is lies—­The flower that once is born for ever dies”—­and the next it’s the Psalms, and I think I’m at a prayer-meeting—­a Welsh Methodist again.’

He fell into a flow of Welsh, hoarsely musical.  Then, with a smile, he nodded farewell; and Fenwick went.

* * * * *

Fenwick wrote that night to Eugenie de Pastourelles at Cannes, enclosing a copy of the letter received from Freddy Tolson.  It meant nothing; but she had asked to be kept informed.  As he entered upon the body of his letter, his eyes still recurred to its opening line: 

‘Dear Madame de Pastourelles.’

For many years he had never addressed her except as ‘My dear friend.’

Well, that was all gone and over.  The memory of her past goodness, of those walks through the Trianon woods, was constantly with him.  But he had used her recklessly and selfishly, and she had done with him.  He admitted it now, as often before, in a temper of dull endurance; bending himself to the task of his report.

* * * * *

Eugenie read his letter, sitting on a bench above the blue Mediterranean, in the pine woods of the Cap d’Antibes.  She had torn it open in hope, and the reading of it depressed her.  In the pine-scented, sun-warmed air she sat for long motionless and sad.  The delicate greenish light fell on the soft brown hair, the white face and hands.  Eugenie’s deep black had now assumed a slight ‘religious’ air which disturbed Lord Findon, and kindled the Protestant wrath of her stepmother.  That short moment of a revived mondanite which Versailles had witnessed, was wholly past; and for the first and only time in her marred life, Eugenie’s natural gaiety was quenched.  She knew well that in the burden which weighed upon her there were morbid elements; but she could only bear it; she could not smile under it.

Fenwick’s letter led her thoughts back to the early incidents of this fruitless search.  Especially did she recall every moment of her interview with Daisy Hewson—­Phoebe Fenwick’s former nursemaid, now married to a small Westmoreland farmer.  One of the first acts of the lawyers had been to induce this woman to come to London to repeat once more what she knew of the catastrophe.

Then, after the examination by the lawyers, Eugenie had pleaded that she might see her—­and see her alone.  Accordingly, a shy and timid woman, speaking with a broad Westmoreland accent, called one morning in Dean’s Yard.

Eugenie had won from her many small details the lawyers had been unable to extract.  They were not, alack, of a kind to help the search for Phoebe; but, interpreted by the aid of her own quick imagination, they drew a picture of the lost mother and child, which sank deep, deep, into Eugenie’s soul.

Mrs. Fenwick, said Mrs. Hewson, scarcely spoke on the journey south.  She sat staring out of window, with her hands on her lap, and Daisy thought there was ’soomat wrang’—­but dared not ask.  In saying good-bye at Euston, Mrs. Fenwick had kissed her, and given the guard a shilling to look after her.  She was holding Carrie in her arms, as the train moved away.  The girl had supposed she was going to join her husband.