mean subjects that interest them; because
when their imagination is stimulated they are not afraid of letting it
go. A man is more mistrustful of himself, but women are born much
more reckless. They push on and on under the protection of secrecy and
silence, and the greater the obscurity of what they wish to explore the
greater their courage."

"Do you mean seriously to tell me that you consider me a creature of
darkness?"

"I spoke in general," remonstrated d'Alcacer. "Anything else would
have been an impertinence. Yes, obscurity is women's best friend. Their
daring loves it; but a sudden flash of light disconcerts them. Generally
speaking, if they don't get exactly at the truth they always manage to
come pretty near to it."

Mrs. Travers had listened with silent attention and she allowed the
silence to continue for some time after d'Alcacer had ceased. When she
spoke it was to say in an unconcerned tone that as to this subject she
had had special opportunities. Her self-possessed interlocutor
managed to repress a movement of real curiosity under an assumption
of conventional interest. "Indeed," he exclaimed, politely. "A special
opportunity. How did you manage to create it?"

This was too much for Mrs. Travers. "I! Create it!" she exclaimed,
indignantly, but under her breath. "How on earth do you think I could
have done it?"

Mr. d'Alcacer, as if communing with himself, was heard to murmur
unrepentantly that indeed women seldom knew how they had "done it," to
which Mrs. Travers in a weary tone returned the remark that no two
men were dense in the same way. To this Mr. d'Alcacer assented without
difficulty. "Yes, our brand presents more varieties. This, from a
certain point of view, is obviously to our advantage. We interest. . . .
Not that I imagine myself interesting to you, Mrs. Travers. But what
about the Man of Fate?"

"Oh, yes," breathed out Mrs. Travers.

"I see! Immensely!" said d'Alcacer in a tone of mysterious
understanding. "Was his stupidity so colossal?"

"It was indistinguishable from great visions that were in no sense mean
and made up for him a world of his own."

"I guessed that much," muttered d'Alcacer to himself. "But that, you
know, Mrs. Travers, that isn't good news at all to me. World of dreams,
eh? That's very bad, very dangerous. It's almost fatal, Mrs. Travers."

"Why all this dismay? Why do you object to a world of dreams?"

"Because I dislike the prospect of being made a sacrif