gentleman and one whom when first I knew him, I held to be the most
fortunate person I ever met, endowed as he was with every advantage of
mind, body and estate. Yet in the end this did not prove to be the
case. Well, while he lived he was a good friend and a good fellow and
none can hope for a better epitaph in a world where all things are
soon forgotten.

And now, what was I to do? To tell the truth I did not altogether
desire to reopen this chapter in past history, or to have to listen to
painful reminiscences from the lips of a bereaved woman. Moreover,
beautiful as she had been, for doubtless she was /passee/ now, and
charming as of course she remained--I do not think I ever knew anyone
who was quite so charming--there was something about Lady Ragnall
which alarmed me. She did not resemble any other woman. Of course no
woman is ever quite like another, but in her case the separateness, if
I may so call it, was very marked. It was as though she had walked out
of a different age, or even world, and been but superficially clothed
with the attributes of our own. I felt that from the first moment I
set eyes upon her and while reading her letter the sensation returned
with added force.

Also for me she had a peculiar attraction and not one of the ordinary
kind. It is curious to find oneself strangely intimate with a person
of whom after all one does not know much, just as if one really knew a
great deal that was shut off by a thin but quite impassable door. If
so, I did not want to open that door for who could tell what might be
on the other side of it? And intimate conversations with a lady in
whose company one has shared very strange experiences, not
infrequently lead to the opening of every kind of door.