ove, for union, before death?"

Noel stared up at him. 'Now!' she thought: I will.'

"Yes," she said, "I know that's true, because I rushed, myself. I'd like
you to know. We couldn't be married--there wasn't time. And--he was
killed. But his son is alive. That's why I've been away so long. I
want every one to know." She spoke very calmly, but her cheeks felt
burning hot.

The painter had made an upward movement of his hands, as if they had been
jerked by an electric current, then he said quite quietly:

"My profound respect, mademoiselle, and my great sympathy. And your
father?"

"It's awful for him."

The painter said gently: "Ah! mademoiselle, I am not so sure. Perhaps he
does not suffer so greatly. Perhaps not even your trouble can hurt him
very much. He lives in a world apart. That, I think, is his true
tragedy to be alive, and yet not living enough to feel reality. Do you
know Anatole France's description of an old woman: 'Elle vivait, mais si
peu.' Would that not be well said of the Church in these days: 'Elle
vivait, mais si peu.' I see him always like a rather beautiful dark
spire in the night-time when you cannot see how it is attached to the
earth. He does not know, he never will know, Life."

Noel looked round at him. "What do you mean by Life, monsieur? I'm
always reading about Life, and people talk of seeing Life! What is
it--where is it? I never see anything that you could call Life."

The painter smiled.

"To 'see life'!" he said. "Ah! that is different. To enjoy yourself!
Well, it is my experience that when people are 'seeing life' as they call
it, they are not enjoying themselves. You know when one is very thirsty
one drinks and drinks, but the thirst remains all the same. There are
places where one can see life as it is called, but the only persons you
will see enjoying themselves at such places are a few humdrums like
myself, who go there for a talk over a cup of coffee. Perhaps at your
age, though, it is different."

Noel clasped her hands, and her eyes seemed to shine in the gloom. "I
want music and dancing and light, and beautiful things and faces; but I
never get them."

"No, there does not exist in this town, or in any other, a place which
will give you that. Fox-trots and ragtime and paint and powder and glare
and half-drunken young men, and women with red lips you can get them in
plenty. But rhythm and beauty and charm never. In Brussels when I was
you