of all these: just a
bit of the earth's surface. Once I asked her where exactly it was
situated and she answered, waving her hand cavalierly at the dead wall of
the room: "Oh, over there." I thought that this was all that I was going
to hear but she added moodily, "I used to take my goats there, a dozen or
so of them, for the day. From after my uncle had said his Mass till the
ringing of the evening bell."

I saw suddenly the lonely spot, sketched for me some time ago by a few
words from Mr. Blunt, populated by the agile, bearded beasts with cynical
heads, and a little misty figure dark in the sunlight with a halo of
dishevelled rust-coloured hair about its head.

The epithet of rust-coloured comes from her. It was really tawny. Once
or twice in my hearing she had referred to "my rust-coloured hair" with
laughing vexation. Even then it was unruly, abhorring the restraints of
civilization, and often in the heat of a dispute getting into the eyes of
Madame de Lastaola, the possessor of coveted art treasures, the heiress
of Henry Allegre. She proceeded in a reminiscent mood, with a faint
flash of gaiety all over her face, except her dark blue eyes that moved
so seldom out of their fixed scrutiny of things invisible to other human
beings.

"The goats were very good. We clambered amongst the stones together.
They beat me at that game. I used to catch my hair in the bushes."

"Your rust-coloured hair," I whispered.

"Yes, it was always this colour. And I used to leave bits of my frock on
thorns here and there. It was pretty thin, I can tell you. There wasn't
much at that time between my skin and the blue of the sky. My legs were
as sunburnt as my face; but really I didn't tan very much. I had plenty
of freckles though. There were no looking-glasses in the Presbytery but
uncle had a piece not bigger than my two hands for his shaving. One
Sunday I crept into his room and had a peep at myself. And wasn't I
startled to see my own eyes looking at me! But it was fascinating, too.
I was about eleven years old then, and I was very friendly with the
goats, and I was as shrill as a cicada and as slender as a match.
Heavens! When I overhear myself speaking sometimes, or look at my limbs,
it doesn't seem to be possible. And yet it is the same one. I do
remember every single goat. They were very clever. Goats are no trouble
really; they don't scatter much. Mine never did even if I had to hide
myself out of the