After a few yards Steinmetz emerged on to a large, sloping lawn with flower beds, and a long, low house above it.

On the covered terrace a man sat writing at a table.

He was surrounded by papers, and the pen in his large, firm hand moved rapidly over the sheet before him.
"We still administer the estate," said Steinmetz, in a low voice.

"From our exile we still sow our seed." They approached over the mossy turf, and presently Paul looked up--a strong face, stern and self-contained; the face of a man who would always have a purpose in life, who would never be petty in thought or deed.
For a moment he did not seem to recognize them.

Then he rose, and the pen fell on the flags of the terrace.
"It is mademoiselle!" said Steinmetz, and no other word was spoken.
Maggie walked on in a sort of unconsciousness.