suite of rooms in another hotel a little way down the hill. I
saw her daily. At first she shrank from publicity and refused to go out,
save in a closed carriage to the town when her presence was necessary
at the inquiries. But after a time I persuaded her to brave the stare of
the curious and stroll with me among the eucalyptus woods above. We
cut ourselves off from other human companionship and felt like two lost
souls wandering alone through mist. She conducted herself with grave and
simple dignity. . . . Once or twice she visited Anastasius in prison.
She found him humanely treated and not despondent. He thought they
had arrested him for the poisoning of the horse, and laughed at their
foolishness. As they refused to return him his dossier, he occupied
himself in reconstructing it, and wrote pages and pages of incoherence
to prove the guilt of Captain Vauvenarde. He was hopelessly mad. . . .
The bond of pain bound me very close to Lola.

"What are you going to do with your life?" I asked her one day.

"So long as I have you as a friend, it doesn't greatly matter."

"You forget," I said, "that you can't have me much longer."

"Are you going to leave me? It's not because I have dragged you through
all this dirt and horror. Another woman might say that of another
man--but not I of you. Why are you going to leave me? I want so
little--only to see you now and then--to keep the heart in me."

"Can't you realise, that what I said in London is true?"

"No. I can't. It's unbelievable. You can't believe it yourself. If
you did, how could you go on behaving like anybody else--like me for
instance?"

"What would you do if you were condemned to die?"

She shuddered. "I should go mad with fear--I----" She broke off and
remained for some moments reflective, with knitted brow. Then she lifted
her head proudly. "No, I shouldn't. I should face it like you. Only
cowards are afraid. It's best to show things that you don't care a hang
for them."

"Keep that sublime _je m'en fich'isme_ up when I'm dead and buried,"
said I, "and you'll pull through your life all right. The only thing you
must avoid is the pursuit of eumoiriety."

"What on earth is that?" she asked.

"The last devastating vanity," said I.

And so it is.

"When you are gone," she said bravely, "I shall remember how strong and
true you were. It will make me strong too."

I acquiesced silently in her proposition. In this age of flippancy
and scepticism, if a h