as India went on in the
eighteenth century, making aimless history. And the sands of opportunity
run and run...."

I shrugged my shoulders and we stood for a little while looking down on
the shining crescent of the Rhine.

"Suppose," said Rachel, "that someone were to say that--in the House."

"The House," I said, "doesn't hear things at my pitch. Bat outcries. Too
shrill altogether."

"It might. If _you_----"

She halted, hesitated for a moment on the question and asked abruptly:

"When are you coming back to England, Mr. Stratton?"

"Certainly not for six months," I said.

A movement of her eyes made me aware of the Fuerstin and Berwick emerging
from the trees. "And then?" asked Rachel.

I didn't want to answer that question, in which the personal note
sounded so clearly. "I am going to America to see America," I said, "and
America may be rather a big thing to see."

"You must see it?"

"I want to be sure of it--as something comprehensive. I want to get a
general effect of it...."

Rachel hesitated, looked back to measure the distance of the Fuerstin and
her companion and put her question again, but this time with a
significance that did not seem even to want to hide itself. "_Then_ will
you come back?" she said.

Her face flamed scarlet, but her eyes met mine boldly. Between us there
was a flash of complete understanding.

My answer, if it was lame and ungallant to such a challenge, was at
least perfectly honest. "I can't make up my mind," I said. "I've been
near making plans--taking steps.... Something holds me back...."

I had no time for an explanation.

"I can't make up my mind," I repeated.

She stood for a moment rather stiffly, staring away towards the blue
hills of Alsace.

Then she turned with a smiling and undisturbed countenance to the
Fuerstin. Her crimson had given place to white. "The triumph of it," she
said with a slight gesture to the flamboyant Teutonism that towered
over us, and boldly repeating words I had used scarcely five minutes
before, "makes me angry. They conquered--ungraciously...."

She had overlooked something in her effort to seem entirely
self-possessed. She collapsed. "My dear!" she cried,--"I forgot!"

"Oh! I'm only a German by marriage!" cried the Fuerstin. "And I can
assure you I quite understand--about the triumph of it...." She surveyed
the achievement of her countrymen. "It is--ungracious. But indeed it's
only a sort of artlessness if you see the thing