For the letter was a recall.
"Blundering old idiot," said Lord Lossiemouth, but he had become very red.
All kinds of memories were surging up in him; Magdalen's crystal love for him, her indefinable charm, her gaiety, her humility, her shyness, her exquisite beauty.
Life had never brought him anything so marvellous, so enchanting, as that first draught of April passion.

And he had quenched his thirst at many other cups since then.

His lips had been blistered and stained at poisoned brims.

Why had that furious old turkey-cock parted him and Magdalen! His heart sank for a moment at the remembrance of his first love.
But what was the use! The Magdalen he had loved had ceased to exist.

The wand-like figure with its apple-blossom face faded, faded, and in its place rose up the image of the thin, distinguished-looking grey-haired woman who had supplanted that marvel.