her. Josette is nearly twenty-four. Do you see
why she won't marry me? I'm hanged if I do."

"I can see what her feeling is," Stephen said. "She must be a ripping
girl."

"I should say she is!--though as obstinate as the devil. Sometimes I
could shake her and box her ears. I haven't seen her for months now.
She wouldn't like me to go to Tlemcen--unless I had a friend with me,
and a good excuse. I didn't know it could hurt so much to be in love,
though I was in once before, and it hurt too, rather. But that was
nothing. For the woman had no soul or mind, only her beauty, and an
unscrupulous sort of ambition which made her want to marry me when my
uncle left me his money. She'd refused to do anything more serious than
flirt and reduce me to misery, until she thought I could give her what
she wanted. I'd imagined myself horribly in love, until her sudden
willingness to take me showed me once for all what she was. Even so, I
couldn't cure the habit of love at first; but I had just sense enough to
keep out of England, where she was, for fear I should lose my head and
marry her. My cure was rather slow, but it was sure; and now I know that
what I thought was love then wasn't love at all. The real thing's as
different as--as--a modern Algerian tile is from an old Moorish one. I
can't say anything stronger! That's why I cut England, to begin with,
and after a while my interests were more identified with France.
Sometimes I go to Paris in the summer--or to a little place in Dauphiny.
But I haven't been back to England for eight years. Algeria holds all my
heart. In Tlemcen is my girl. Here are my garden and my beasts. Now you
have my history since Oxford days."

"You know something of _my_ history through the papers," Stephen blurted
out with a desperate defiance of his own reserve.

"Not much of your real history, I think. Papers lie, and people
misunderstand. Don't talk of yourself unless you really want to. But I
say, look here, Stephen. That woman I thought I cared for--may I tell
you what she was like? Somehow I want you to know. Don't think me a cad.
I don't mean to be. But--may I tell?"

"Of course. Why not?"

"She was dark and awfully handsome, and though she wasn't an actress,
she would have made a splendid one. She thought only of herself.
I--there was a picture in a London paper lately which reminded me of
her--the picture of a young lady you know--or think you know.
They--those two--are of the same type. I don