th that faintly ironical smile hovering sometimes in
her eyes, sometimes on her lips, so that it was hard to face her and
feel quite comfortable.

I began, finally, an elaborate and logical argument, forgetting that
women reason only with their hearts, and she listened courteously. To
meet her eyes when I was speaking interrupted my train of thought, and
often I was constrained to look out across the hills at the heavy,
solid flanks of the mountains, which seemed to steady my logic and
bring rebellious thought and wandering wisdom to obedience.

I explained my theory of the acceptance of three things--human nature,
the past, and the present. Given these, the solution of future
problems must be a different solution from that which she proposed.

At moments the solemn absurdity of it all came over me--the
turkey-girl, with her golden head bent, her butterfly coiffe
a-flutter, discussing ethics with an irresponsible fly-by-night, who
happened at that period of his career to carry a commission in the
Imperial Police.

The lazy roadside butterflies flew up in clouds before the
slow-stepping horse; the hill rabbits, rising to their hindquarters,
wrinkled their whiskered noses at us; from every thicket speckled
hedge-birds peered at us as we went our way solemnly deciding those
eternal questions already ancient when the Talmud branded woman with
the name of Lilith.

At length, as we reached the summit of the sandy hill, "There is La
Trappe, monsieur," said my turkey-girl, and once more stretched out
her lovely arm.

There appeared to be nothing mysterious about the house or its
surroundings; indeed, a sunnier and more peaceful spot would be hard
to find in that land of hills, ravines, and rocky woodlands, outposts
of those cloudy summits soaring skyward in the south.

The house itself was visible through gates of wrought iron, swinging
wide between pillars of stone, where an avenue stretched away under
trees to a granite terrace, glittering in the sun. And under the
terrace a quiet pool lay reflecting tier on tier of stone steps which
mounted to the bright esplanade above.

There was no porter at the gate to welcome me or to warn me back; the
wet road lay straight in front, barred only by sunbeams.

"May we enter?" I asked, politely.

She did not answer, and I led the horse down that silent avenue of
trees towards the terrace and the glassy pool which mirrored the steps
of stone.

Masses of scarlet geraniums, be