sco, and she believed, was now a
lawyer in California. But at least he had been wise enough to give up
two years to a whim, and had bared his skin to the sun for two glorious
summers. And not everyone has the will to adventure even so far as that.

Then they had talked about the passion for adventure, and Craven had
spoken of his love, not yet lost, for Browning's poem, "Waring"; how he
had read it when quite a boy and been fascinated by it as by few other
poems. He had even quoted some lines from it, and said them well, taking
pains and not fearing any criticism or ridicule from her. And they
had wondered whether underneath the smooth surface of Browning, the
persistent diner out, there had not been far down somewhere a brown and
half-savage being who, in some other existence, had known life under
lateen sails on seas that lie beyond the horizon line of civilization.
And they had spoken of the colours of sails, of the red, the brown, the
tawny orange-hued canvases, that, catching the winds under sunset skies,
bring romance, like some rare fruit from hidden magical islands, upon
emerald, bright-blue or indigo seas.

The talk had run on without any effort. They had been happily sunk in
talk. She had kept the fire from her face with the big fan. But the fire
had lit his face up sometimes and the flames had seemed to leap in his
eyes. And watching him without seeming to watch him the self-mockery had
died out of her eyes. She had forgotten to mock at herself and had let
herself go down the stream: floating from subject to subject, never
touching bottom, never striking the bank, never brought up short by an
obstacle. It had been a perfect conversation. Even her imp must have
been quite absorbed in it. For he had not tormented her during it.

But at last the clock had struck one, just one clear chiming blow. And
suddenly Craven had started up. His blue eyes were shining and a dusky
red had come into his cheeks. And he had apologized, had said something
about being "carried away" beyond all recollection of the hour. She
had stayed where she was and had bidden him good night quietly from the
sofa, shutting up her fan and laying it on a table. And she had said:
"I wonder what it was like with the Georgians!" And then he had again
forgotten the hour, and had stood there talking about the ultra-modern
young people of London as if he were very far away from them, were much
older, much simpler, even much more akin to her, than the