"There dwells some constant thought in your mind, my lord Duke," he
said, on a night in which they sate together alone. "Is it a new one?"
"No," Osmonde answered; "'twould perhaps not be so constant if it were.
It is an old thought which has taken a new form. In times past"--his
voice involuntarily falling a tone--"I did not realise its presence."
The short silence which fell was broken by the Duke and with some
suddenness.
"Is it one of which you would rid yourself?" he asked.
"No, your Grace."
"Tis well," gravely, "You could not--if you would."
He asked no further question, but went on as if in deep thought, rather
reflecting aloud.
"There are times," he said, "when to some it is easy and natural to say
that such fevers are folly and unreasonableness--but even to those so
slightly built by nature, and of memories so poor, such times do not
come, nor can be dreamed of, when they are passing _through_ the
furnace fires. They come after--or before."
Osmonde did not speak. He raised his eyes and met those of his
illustrious companion squarely, and for a short space each looked into
the soul of the other, it so seemed, though not a word was spoke.
"You did not say the thing before," the Duke commented at last. "You
will not say it after."
"No, I shall not," answered Osmonde, and somewhat later he added, with
flushed cheek, "I thank your Grace for your comprehension of an
unspoken thing.
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