her volition.

He sighed and appeared to speak with some effort. "It was long ago," he
said. "She was like violets or white English roses."

"And did you love her?" she asked, that soft tenseness still in her
voice, "and did she love you?"

"I suppose every man has his ideal of woman, perhaps unconsciously to
himself, and she was mine."

He sighed again and she glanced quickly at him from the corners of her
eyes with a half scornful smile upon her lips. She knew that she did not
suggest violets, shy and fragrant and hidden under their own green
leaves; neither was there anything in the mountains to suggest the
gardens in which roses grew. But he had left the violets and English
roses long ago, because of that spirit of restlessness within him, and
finally he had come to these wild, savage mountains and was content
here, where it was difficult even to picture the calm and repose of the
gardens he had left. He had said that he did not know why he had come,
but Pearl did. She never doubted it. It was the call of her heart across
the world to him, seeking him, reaching him, drawing him to her.

"And does it make you unhappy to think of her now?" she asked still
softly.

"No," he said, "no, not now. But last night something in the music
caused the years to drop away and I was back there again and she rose
before me. Really, I felt her very presence. I saw her as plainly as I
see you now."