nths,
she was conscious of the stirring of her womanhood--roused into swift
activity by the first approach of the world with its men and women, its
laxities and prejudices, its infinite potentialities for good or evil.

Some vague foreshadowing of this idea was casting itself across her
mind, when the thread of her musings was suddenly broken by a quick
step sounding across the deserted terrace, and with a slight,
involuntary movement, she straightened herself, and brought her hands
together upon the cold surface of the parapet.

Sir Walter Gore had parted with Barnard in the hall of the hotel; and
now he crossed the terrace quickly, conscious of the fast falling
twilight. He was close to the flight of stone steps that led to the
water, before the flutter of Clodagh's light dress caught his
preoccupied attention.

Seeing her, he paused and raised his hat.

"You look very mysterious, Mrs. Milbanke," he said. "Has your husband
gone indoors?"

Clodagh felt herself colour. Unreasonably, and seemingly inexplicably,
the mention of Milbanke's name jarred upon her.

"My husband has gone to see an archway in one of the churches," she
said with a tinge of sharpness.

Caught by the inflexion of her voice, Gore looked at her more closely
through the gathering dusk.

"And you do not share his taste for the antique?"

She turned towards him, her eyes alight with a sharp, cold brightness.

"I hate the antique!" she said with sudden vehemence.

Almost against his will, Gore looked at her again.

"And yet you come from Ireland? Isn't everything there very old?"

For an instant she looked away across the darkening waters; then her
glance flashed back to his.

"Yes, old," she said passionately; "but so naturally old, that its age
is not thrust upon you. Where I come from, there is a ruined chapel on
the edge of a cliff that dates from the fourth century. And at the
present day the peasants pray there, just as their ancestors prayed
centuries and centuries ago. They don't stare at it, and read about it,
and write about it, like the antiquarians do. They pray there. The
chapel isn't a curiosity to them; it's a part of their lives."

Gore was silent. An unconquerable surprise--a reluctant
fascination--held him chained, forgetful of the gathering darkness and
of the gondola that awaited him at the foot of the steps.

As he stood hesitating, Clodagh spoke again.

"Don't you believe that things should be lived--not merely l