"The twenty-sixth, the twenty-sixth," she said.

Then a pause, and afterwards with a sudden sharpness: "Come to me on the
twenty-fifth, and I will give you my reply, M. Shorland."

He still held the portrait in his hand. She stepped forward. "Let me
see it again," she said.

He handed it to her: "You have spoiled a good face, Gabrielle."

"But the eyes are not hurt," she replied; "see how they look at one."
She handed it back.

"Yes, kindly."

"And sadly. As though he still remembered Lucile. Lucile! I have not
been called that name for a long time. It is on my grave-stone, you
know. Ah, perhaps you do not know. You never saw my grave. I have.
And on the tombstone is written this: By Luke to Lucile. And then
beneath, where the grass almost hides it, the line: I have followed my
Star to the last. You do not know what that line means; I will tell you.
Once, when we were first married, he wrote me some verses, and he called
them, 'My Star, Lucile.' Here is a verse--ah, why do you not smile, when
I say I will tell you what he wrote? Chut! Women such as I have
memories sometimes. One can admire the Heaven even if one lives in--ah,
you know! Listen." And with a voice that seemed far away and not part
of herself she repeated these lines:

"In my sky of delight there's a beautiful Star;