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"There is no necessity," rejoined his companion. "Life has always

poppies in her hands. Of course, now and then things linger. I

once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form

of artistic mourning for a romance that would not die.

Ultimately, however, it did die. I forget what killed it. I think

it was her proposing to sacrifice the whole world for me. That is

always a dreadful moment. It fills one with the terror of

eternity. Well-would you believe it?-a week ago, at Lady

Hampshire's, I found myself seated at dinner next the lady in

question, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again,

and digging up the past, and raking up the future. I had buried

my romance in a bed of asphodel. She dragged it out again and

assured me that I had spoiled her life. I am bound to state that

she ate an enormous dinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But

what a lack of taste she showed! The one charm of the past is

that it is the past.