wakes up, doesn't one?"

Peter nodded, but steered her back. "Tell me more," he said. "You wake
something up in me; I feel as if I was born to be there."

"Well," she said reflectively, "I don't know that anything can beat the
great range that runs along our border in Natal. It's different, of
course, but it's very wonderful. There's one pass I know--see here, you
go up a wide valley with a stream that runs in and out, and that you have
to cross again and again until it narrows and narrows to a small footpath
between great kranzes. At first there are queer stunted trees and bushes
about, with the stream, that's now a tiny thing of clear water, singing
among them, and there the trees stop, and you climb up and up among the
boulders, until you think you can do no more, and at the last you come
out on the top."

"And then?"

"You're in wonderland. Before you lies peak on peak, grass-grown and
rocky, so clear in the rare, still air. There is nothing there but
mountain and rock and grass, and the blue sky, with perhaps little clouds
being blown across it, and a wind that's cool and vast--you feel it fills
everything. And you look down the way you've come, and there's all Natal
spread out at your feet like a tiny picture, lands and woods and rivers,
till it's lost in the mist of the distance."

She ceased, staring at her wine-glass. At last the chatter of the place
broke in on Peter. "My dear," he exclaimed, "one can see it. But what do
you do there?"

She laughed and broke the spell. "What would one do?" she demanded. "Eat
and drink and sleep, and make love, Peter, if there's anybody to make
love to."

"But you couldn't do that all your life," he objected.

"Why not? Why do anything else? I never can see. And when you're
tired--for you _do_ get tired at last--back to Durban for a
razzle-dazzle, or back farther still, to London or Paris for a bit.
That's the life for me, Peter!"

He smiled: "Provided somebody is there with the necessary, I suppose?" he
said.

"Solomon," she mocked, "Solomon, Solomon! Why do you spoil it all? But
you're right, of course, Peter, though I hate to think of that."

"I see how we're like, and how we're unlike, Julie," said Peter suddenly,
"You like real things, and so do I. You hate to feel stuffy and tied up
in conventions, and so do I. But you're content with just that, and I'm
not."

"Am I?" she queried, looking at him a little strangely.

Peter did not notice; he was bent on pu