uced by reserve or coldness, but by a
wistful, acquiescent, subdued quality, expressive of uncertainty, of
disorder in her conceptions of things.

"How tempting those two easy-chairs look, under the old tree on your
lawn," said the Professor. "Wouldn't it be pleasant to go out?"

Hadria hesitated for a second, and then rose. "Certainly; we will have
tea there."

When they were seated under the shade taking their tea, with the canopy
of walnut leaves above their heads, the Professor saw that Hadria shewed
signs of serious trouble. The haggard lines, the marks of suffering,
were not to be hidden in the clear light of the summer afternoon. He
insensibly shifted his chair so as not to have to gaze at her when he
spoke. That seemed to be a relief to her.

"Valeria is here till the day after to-morrow," she said. "She has gone
for a walk, and has probably forgotten the tea-hour but I hope you will
see her."

"I want to find out what her plans are. It would be pleasant to come
across one another abroad. I wish you were coming too."

"Ah, so do I."

"I suppose it's impossible."

"Absolutely."

"For the mind, there is no tonic like travel," he said.

"It must be a sovereign cure for egoism."

"If anything will cure that disease." Her face saddened.

"You believe it is quite incurable?"

"If it is constitutional."

"Don't you think that sometimes people grow egoistic through having to
fight incessantly for existence--I mean for individual existence?"

"It certainly is the instinct of moral self-preservation. It corresponds
to the raised arm when a blow threatens."

"One has the choice between egoism and extinction."

"It almost amounts to that. Perhaps, after long experience and much
suffering, the individuality may become secure, and the armour no longer
necessary, but this is a bitter process. Most people become extinct, and
then congratulate themselves on self-conquest."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Hadria musingly. "How dangerous it is to
congratulate oneself on anything! One never is so near to folly as
then."

The Professor threw some crumbs to a chaffinch, which had flown down
within a few yards of the tea-table.

"I think you are disposed, at present, to criticise yourself too
mercilessly," he said in a tone that had drawn forth many a confidence.
It was not to be resisted.

"No; that would be difficult."

"Your conscience may accuse you severely, but who of us escapes such
accusations? Be a li