are alive
distance and absence don't really matter; there is always hope. And
then, you know, Camille is so brilliant; it would be a loss to France,
to the whole world, if he was killed."

"What did you say his name was?"

"Camille Michelin."

"I know him then. He came to me once in Paris, after a concert, and
fell on my neck without an introduction. Afterwards he painted my
portrait."

"He is nice, isn't he?" she said eagerly.

He assented. "Well, go on. You could not let them fight--"

"I went to see the Prince at his hotel, and I persuaded him to write a
sort of apology."

"You persuaded him. How?"

"Jean, that man is the exact opposite of the centurion's servant; say
'go' and he stays, 'don't do it' and he does it. And I once made the
fatal mistake of telling him I could never love him. He did not want
me to before, but now-- He is a spoilt boy who only cares for the
fruit that is forbidden or withheld. It is the scaling of the orchard
wall that he enjoys; if he could walk in by the gate in broad daylight
I am sure he never would, or, at any rate, he would soon walk out
again. I promised to come here alone to meet him, and not to tell
Camille, and I have kept my promise. If you knew how frightened I
was.... I thought you might be away, and that Hilaire perhaps could
not come in your stead, though I knew he would if it were possible."

The man left her then and went to the window, where he stood looking
out upon the driving mist and rain that made the troubled waters of
the lake seem grey, and shrouded all the wooded hills beyond.

"Suppose I had not come," he said presently. "What would you have
done?"

"You ask that?"

He turned upon her. "Yes," he said hardly, "just that."

She took a small pistol from the pocket of her loose sac coat and gave
it to him.

"So you were going to shoot him? I thought--"

She tried to still the quivering of her lips. "No, myself. Oh, I am
not really inconsistent. I told you I was afraid of death. I will say
all now and have done; I am afraid of life too, with its long slow
pains, and most of all of what men call love. I don't want to go on,"
she cried hysterically. "I am sick. I don't want to see, or hear, or
feel anything any more. I have had enough. All this year I have
struggled, and people have been kind; but friendship is a poor, weak
thing, and love--love is hateful."

She hid her face in her hands.

"Rubbish!" he said, and then, in a changed voice, "My d