t met."

"I believe," said Austen, gravely, "it was when a mammoth beast had his
cave on Holdfast, and the valleys were covered with cocoanut-palms."

"And you appeared suddenly then, too, and rescued me. You have always
been uniformly kind," she said, "but--a little intangible."

"A myth," he suggested, "with neither height, breadth, nor thickness."

"You have height and breadth," she answered, measuring him swiftly with
her eye; "I am not sure about the thickness. Perhaps. What I mean to say
is, that you seem to be a person in the world, but not of it. Your exits
and entrances are too mysterious, and then you carry me out of it,
--although I invite myself, which is not at all proper."

"I came down here to see you," he said, and took a firmer grip on the
reins. "I exist to that extent."

"That's unworthy of you," she cried. "I don't believe you--would have
known I was here unless you had caught eight of me."

"I should have known it," he said.

"How?"

"Because I heard you playing. I am sure it was you playing."

"Yes, it was I," she answered simply, "but I did not know that--you
heard. Where were you?

"I suppose," he replied, "a sane witness would have testified that I was
in the street--one of those partial and material truths which are so
misleading."

She laughed again, joyously.

"Seriously, why did you come down here?" she insisted. "I am not so
absorbed in Humphrey's career that I cannot take an interest in yours. In
fact, yours interests me more, because it is more mysterious.
Humphrey's," she added, laughing, "is charted from day to day, and
announced in bulletins. He is more generous to his friends than--you."

"I have nothing to chart," said Austen, "except such pilgrimages as
this,--and these, after all, are unchartable. Your friend, Mr. Crewe, on
the other hand, is well away on his voyage after the Golden Fleece. I
hope he is provided with a Lynceus."

She was silent for a long time, but he was feverishly conscious of her
gaze upon him, and did not dare to turn his eyes to hers. The look in
them he beheld without the aid of physical vision, and in that look was
the world-old riddle of her sex typified in the image on the African
desert, which Napoleon had tried to read, and failed. And while wisdom
was in the look, there was in it likewise the eternal questioning of a
fate quite as inscrutable, against which wisdom would avail nothing. It
was that look which, for Austen, revealed in her