ugged her
shoulders and answered, as she had done before, that either she would
have died or some other nice gentleman would have taken care of her.

"Do you think nice gentlemen go about London looking for homeless little
girls?" I asked on that occasion.

"All gentlemen like beautiful girls," she replied, which brought us to
an old argument.

This afternoon, however, we did not argue. The day forbade it. I lay
with my head on Carlotta's lap, looking up into the deep blue, and
feeling a most curious sensation of positive happiness. My attitude
towards life has hitherto been negative. I have avoided more than I have
sought. I have not drunk deep of life because I have been unathirst. To
me--

"To stand aloof and view the fight
Is all the pleasure of the game."

My interest even in Judith has been of a detached nature. I have been
like Faust. I might have said:

_"Werd' ich zum Augenblicke sagen
Werweile doch! Du bist so schon!_

Then may the devil take me and do what he likes with me!"

I have never had the least inclination to apostrophise the moment in
this fashion and request it to tarry on account of its exceeding charm.
Never until this afternoon, when the deep summer enchantment of the
turquoise day was itself ensorcelised by the witchery of a girl's
springtide.

"You have three, four, five--oh, such a lot of grey hairs," said
Carlotta, looking down on my reclining head.

"Many people have grey hair at twenty," said I.

"But I have none."

"You are not yet twenty, Carlotta."

"Do you think I will have them then? Oh, it would be dreadful. No one
would care to have me."

"And I? Am I thus the object of every one's disregard?"

"Oh, you--you are a man. It is right for a man. It makes him look wise.
His wife says, 'Behold, my husband has grey hair. He has wisdom. If I am
not good he will beat me. So I must obey him."'

"She wouldn't run off with a good-for-nothing scamp of two-and-twenty?"

"Oh, no-o," said Carlotta. "She would not be so wicked."

"I am glad," said I, "that you think a sense of conjugal duty is an
ineradicable element of female nature. But suppose she fell in love with
the young scamp?"

"Men fall in love," she replied sagely. "Women only fall in love in
stories--Turkish stories. They love their husbands."

"You amaze me," said I.

"Ye-es," said Carlotta.

"But in England, a man wants a woman to love him before