ooked at?"
she asked, her voice low and tense. Almost unconsciously the desire to
interest this man, to win his attention, to compel him to share her
opinions, had sprung into her mind.

Gore answered her with directness.

"No," he said. "All things cannot be lived."

His voice was quiet and controlled; the pose of his body, the look in
his eyes, all suggested a tempered strength--a curbed vitality. The
desire to dominate him rose higher, overshadowing every other sensation
in Clodagh's brain.

She stepped nearer to him, her hand resting on the stone balustrade,
her body bending forward.

"Don't you think that when life is so very short, we are justified in
taking all we can--when we can?"

Her warm lips were parted, her eyes shone with an added light. She was
walking on the edge of an abyss with the ardour of one whose gaze is
fixed upon the sun. But Gore--seeing only the abyss--girded on his
armour.

"No," he said slowly and deliberately. "No; that has never been my
standpoint."

"Then you refuse the good things of life when they come your way?"

"Good is a very elastic word."

He was fencing, and she realised it. With a subtle change of tone, she
made a fresh essay.

"Isn't the meaning of every word merely a matter of inflexion?"

He hesitated.

"I--I suppose so," he admitted guardedly.

She smiled suddenly, looking up into his face.

"Then to me, the word 'good' means all that is warm and light and
happy. And to you, it means something cold--or unattainable?"

"Indeed no! You have made a wrong deduction."

"Well, what does it mean to you?"

"Mean? I--I am not sure that I can tell you."

"Perhaps you have not found the meaning?"

"Perhaps not."

"But you are seeking for it?"

He laughed a little constrainedly.

"I may be--unconsciously."

Again she averted her eyes, and turned towards the mysterious canal.

"Now I understand one thing!" she said in a soft, slow voice.

"What is that?" Gore was curious, despite himself.

"Why they call you 'Sir Galahad'?"

There was a moment of silence. His face flushed, then turned cold.

"Indeed!" he said stiffly. "And, if it is not indiscreet, may I ask who
calls me 'Sir Galahad'?"

At the tone of his voice, Clodagh wheeled round.

"Didn't you know?" she asked. "I thought--oh, I was sure you knew----"

He laughed.

"No!" he said with elaborate indifference--"no! To whom am I indebted
for the name?"

But his companion was silent. Acutel