She sat leaning forward, staring at the dull red coals; and Graham was silent for a moment.

“Then you have forgotten the old days altogether?” he said at last.

“I never speak of them,” she answered slowly; “no, I have not forgotten—­it is not in me to forget, I think—­but I do not speak of them; of what use?  It is like a dream now, that old time, and no one cares for one’s dreams but oneself.”

“Am I part of the dream too, Madelon?  For I think I belong more to that old time you talk about, which is not so very remote, after all, than to the present.  I had a little friend Madelon once, but I feel quite a stranger with this fashionable Miss Linders before me.”

“You are laughing at me,” said Madelon, opening her eyes wide.  “I am not at all fashionable, I think.  I don’t know what you mean; what should make you think such a thing, Monsieur Horace?”

“Well, your general appearance,” he answered.  “It suggests balls, fetes, concerts, operas——­”

Madelon shook her head, laughing.

“That is a very deceptive appearance,” she said.  “Aunt Barbara and I never go anywhere but to classes, and masters, and to a small tea-party occasionally, and to see pictures sometimes.”

“But how is that?—­does Aunt Barbara not approve of society?”

“Oh, yes, but she thinks I am not old enough,” answered Madelon, demurely.  “So I am not out yet, and I have not been to a ball since I was ten years old.”

“And do you like that sort of thing?  It does not sound at all lively,” said Graham.

“It is rather dull,” replied Madelon, “simply; but then I think everything in England is—­is triste—­I beg your pardon,” she added, quickly, colouring, “I did not mean to complain.”

“No, no, I understand.  You need not mind what you say to me, Madelon; I want to know what you are doing, what sort of life you are leading, how you get on.  So you find England triste? In what way?”

“I don’t know—­not in one way or another—­it is everything.  There is no life, no movement, no colour, or sunshine—­yes, the sun shines, of course, but it is different.  Ah, Monsieur Horace, you who have just come back to it, do you not understand what I mean?”

“I think I do in a way; but then, you know, coming to England is coming home to me, Madelon, and that makes a great difference.”

“Yes, that makes a great difference; England can never be home to me, I think.  I will tell you, Monsieur Horace—­yesterday at that Exhibition I went to with Aunt Barbara, you know, I saw a picture; it was an Italian scene, quite small, only a white wall with a vine growing over the top, and a bit of blue sky, and a beggar-boy asleep in the shade.  One has seen the same thing a hundred times before, but this one looked so bright, so hot, so sunny, it gave me such a longing—­such a longing——­”

She started up, and walked once or twice up and down the room.  In a moment she came back, and went on hurriedly:—­