I was happy.  In my secret heart I began to ask myself if it could be true that they made me feel a little as if I somehow belonged to some one.  I had always seemed so detached from every one.  I had not been miserable about it, and I had not complained to myself; I only accepted the detachment as part of my kind of life.

Mr. MacNairn came into the garden later and several other people came in to tea.  It was apparently a sort of daily custom—­that people who evidently adored Mrs. MacNairn dropped in to see and talk to her every afternoon.  She talked wonderfully, and her friends’ joy in her was wonderful, too.  It evidently made people happy to be near her.  All she said and did was like her light step and the movements of her delicate, fine head—­gracious and soft and arrestingly lovely.  She did not let me drift away and sit in a corner looking on, as I usually did among strangers.  She kept me near her, and in some subtle, gentle way made me a part of all that was happening—­the talk, the charming circle under the spreading boughs of the apple-tree, the charm of everything.  Sometimes she would put out her exquisite, long-fingered hand and touch me very lightly, and each time she did it I felt as if she had given me new life.

There was an interesting elderly man who came among the rest of the guests.  I was interested in him even before she spoke to me of him.  He had a handsome, aquiline face which looked very clever.  His talk was brilliantly witty.  When he spoke people paused as if they could not bear to lose a phrase or even a word.  But in the midst of the trills of laughter surrounding him his eyes were unchangingly sad.  His face laughed or smiled, but his eyes never.

“He is the greatest artist in England and the most brilliant man,” Mrs. MacNairn said to me, quietly.  “But he is the saddest, too.  He had a lovely daughter who was killed instantly, in his presence, by a fall.  They had been inseparable companions and she was the delight of his life.  That strange, fixed look has been in his eyes ever since.  I know you have noticed it.”

We were walking about among the flower-beds after tea, and Mr. MacNairn was showing me a cloud of blue larkspurs in a corner when I saw something which made me turn toward him rather quickly.

“There is one!” I said.  “Do look at her!  Now you see what I mean!  The girl standing with her hand on Mr. Le Breton’s arm.”

Mr. Le Breton was the brilliant man with the sad eyes.  He was standing looking at a mass of white-and-purple iris at the other side of the garden.  There were two or three people with him, but it seemed as if for a moment he had forgotten them—­had forgotten where he was.  I wondered suddenly if his daughter had been fond of irises.  He was looking at them with such a tender, lost expression.  The girl, who was a lovely, fair thing, was standing quite close to him with her hand in his arm, and she was smiling, too—­such a smile!