seen that one was the most real to me. More
real than anything in life."

Mrs. Travers, remembering the fatal inanity of most opera librettos, was
touched by these words as if there had been something pathetic in this
readiness of response; as if she had heard a starved man talking of the
delight of a crust of dry bread. "I suppose you forgot yourself in that
story, whatever it was," she remarked in a detached tone.

"Yes, it carried me away. But I suppose you know the feeling."

"No. I never knew anything of the kind, not even when I was a chit of
a girl." Lingard seemed to accept this statement as an assertion of
superiority. He inclined his head slightly. Moreover, she might have
said what she liked. What pleased him most was her not looking at him;
for it enabled him to contemplate with perfect freedom the curve of her
cheek, her small ear half hidden by the clear mesh of fine hair,
the fascination of her uncovered neck. And her whole person was an
impossible, an amazing and solid marvel which somehow was not so much
convincing to the eye as to something within him that was apparently
independent of his senses. Not even for a moment did he think of her as
remote. Untouchable--possibly! But remote--no. Whether consciously or
unconsciously he took her spiritually for granted. It was materially
that she was a wonder of the sort that is at the same time familiar and
sacred.

"No," Mrs. Travers began again, abruptly. "I never forgot myself in a
story. It was not in me. I have not even been able to forget myself on
that morning on shore which was part of my own story."

"You carried yourself first rate," said Lingard, smiling at the nape of
her neck, her ear, the film of escaped hair, the modelling of the corner
of her eye. He could see the flutter of the dark eyelashes: and the
delicate flush on her cheek had rather the effect of scent than of
colour.

"You approved of my behaviour."

"Just right, I tell you. My word, weren't they all struck of a heap when
they made out what you were."

"I ought to feel flattered. I will confess to you that I felt only half
disguised and was half angry and wholly uncomfortable. What helped me, I
suppose, was that I wanted to please. . . ."

"I don't mean to say that they were exactly pleased," broke in Lingard,
conscientiously. "They were startled more."

"I wanted to please you," dropped Mrs. Travers, negligently. A faint,
hoarse, and impatient call of a bird was heard from