he true beauty
of the land. It was unconventional, audacious, crazy. But, again, why not?
Zora Middlemist was answerable for her actions to no man or woman alive.
Why not drink a great draught of the freedom that was hers? What did it
matter that the man was a stranger? All the more daring the adventure. Her
heart beat gladly. But chaste women, like children, know instinctively the
man they can trust.

"Shall we?"

"Drive?"

"Yes--unless--" a thought suddenly striking her--"unless you want to go
back to your friends."

"Good Lord!" said he, aghast, as if she were accusing him of criminal
associations. "I have no friends."

"Then come."

She entered the carriage. He followed meekly and sat beside her. Where
should they drive? The cabman suggested the coast road to Mentone. She
agreed. On the point of starting she observed that her companion was
bare-headed.

"You've forgotten your hat."

She spoke to him as she would have done to a child.

"Why bother about hats?"

"You'll catch your death of cold. Go and get it at once."

He obeyed with a docility which sent a little tingle of exaltation through
Mrs. Middlemist. A woman may have an inordinate antipathy to men, but she
loves them to do her bidding. Zora was a woman; she was also young.

He returned. The cabman whipped up his strong pair of horses, and they
started through the town towards Mentone.

Zora lay back on the cushions and drank in the sensuous loveliness of the
night--the warm, scented air, the velvet and diamond sky, the fragrant
orange groves--the dim, mysterious olive trees, the looming hills, the
wine-colored, silken sea, with its faint edging of lace on the dusky sweep
of the bay. The spirit of the South overspread her with its wings and took
her amorously in its arms.

After a long, long silence she sighed, remembering her companion.

"Thank you for not talking," she said softly.

"Don't," he replied. "I had nothing to say. I never talk. I've scarcely
talked for a year."

She laughed idly.

"Why?"

"No one to talk to. Except my man," he added conscientiously. "His name is
Wiggleswick."

"I hope he looks after you well," said Zora, with a touch of maternal
instinct.

"He wants training. That's what I am always telling him. But he can't hear.
He's seventy and stone-deaf. But he's interesting. He tells me about jails
and things."

"Jails?"

"Yes. He spent most of his time in prison. He was a professional
burglar--but then he