raised her eyes again as she
asked the question. "Have you seen anything really of the world? I do
not mean to be rude, but this world of ours, this world of society that
holds us all, is there anything real about it, since nearly everything
in it is a sham? Look at the lives we lead, look at Paris and London and
Berlin. Why the very language of society is framed to say things we do
not mean."

"It is civilization. How else would you have it?"

"I don't know," she replied, "but I do know it is not life. It is
dishonesty. You say that the only happy married people are those that
are good companions, that love does not count in the long run, and you
are right, perhaps, as far as what you call the World is concerned. I
only repeat that the thing you call the World is not the real world, for
love is real, and love is not merely a question of good companionship.
It is an immortal bond between two spirits and death cannot break it."

"You speak as though you were very certain of a thing which, of all
things, is most hidden from us."

"I speak by instinct."

"Well," said the Prince, "perhaps you are right. We have left behind us
the simplicity of the old world, we have become artificial, our life is
a sham--but what would you have and how are we to alter it? We are all
like passengers in a train travelling to heaven knows where; the seats
are well cushioned and the dining-car leaves nothing to be desired, but
I admit the atmosphere is stuffy and the long journey has developed all
sorts of unpleasant traits among the passengers--well, what would you
do? We cannot get out."

"I suppose not," said she.

He rose up and stood for a moment turning over some magazines lying on
the table. He had received his answer and he knew instinctively that it
was useless to pursue the business further.

Then after a few more words he went on deck. The wind had fallen to a
steady blow but the sky was still overcast and the atmosphere was heavy
and clammy and not consistent. It was as though the low lying clouds
dipped here and there to touch the sea. Every now and then the _Gaston
de Paris_ would run into a wreath of fog and pass through it into the
clear darkness of the night beyond.

In the darkness aft of the bridge nothing could be seen but the pale
hint of the bridge canvas and a trace of spars and funnels now wiped out
with mist, now visible again against the night.

The Prince leaned on the weather rail and looked over at the t