the forest, the heat of the southern day, the woodland fragrances of which the air was full, and the sense of being intimately alone with her, set up within him a turbulent vibration, half of delight, half of pained suspense.  And the complaisant informality with which she met him played a sustaining counterpoint.  ‘What luck, what luck, what luck,’ were the words which shaped themselves to the strong beating of his pulses.  What would happen next?  Whither would it lead?  He had savoured the bouquet, he was famished to taste the wine.  And yet, so complicated are our human feelings, he was obscurely vexed.  Only two kinds of woman, he would have maintained yesterday, could conceivably do a thing like this:  an ingenue or ‘that sort.’  She wasn’t an ingenue.  Something, at the same time, half assured him that she wasn’t ’that sort,’ either.  But—­the circumstances!  The situation!

‘Why odd?’ she repeated.

‘Oh, I don’t want to talk about the Queen,’ he said, in a smothered voice.

‘The oddity relates itself to the Queen?’

’Oh, this is where we used to waste half our lives when we were children.  That’s all.  This was our favourite nook.’

‘Perfect then for the story you’re going to tell me.’

‘What story?’

‘You said it was a long story.’

‘There’s really no story at all.’  His eyes were fastened upon her hands, small and tapering, in their tan gauntlets.  The point of a patent-leather boot glanced from the edge of her skirt.  A short gold watch-chain dangled from her breast, a cluster of charms at the end.

‘You said it was a long story,’ she repeated sternly.

’It would be a dull one.  We knew each other when we were infants, and used to play together.  That is all.’

’But what was she like?  Describe her to me.  I adore souvenirs d’enfance.’  Her eyes were bright with eagerness.

’Oh, she was very pretty.  The prettiest little girl I’ve ever seen.  She had the most wonderful eyes—­deep, deep, into which you could look a hundred miles; you know the sort; dreamy, poetical, sad; oh, lovely eyes.  And she used to wear her hair down her back; it was very long, and soft—­soft as smoke, almost; almost impalpable.  She always dressed in white—­short white frocks, with broad sashes, red or blue.  That was the fashion then for little girls.  Perhaps it is still—­I’ve never noticed.’

‘Yes.  Don’t stop.  Go on.’

’Dear me, I don’t know what to say.  I used to see her a good deal, because they were our neighbours.  Her father used to ask me over to stay at Granjolaye.  She needed a playmate, and I was the only one available.  Sometimes she would come and spend a day at Saint-Graal.  Do you know Granjolaye?  The castle?  It’s worth going over.  It used to belong to the Kings of Navarre, you know.  We used to play together in the great audience chamber, and chase each other through the secret passages in the walls.  At Saint-Graal