ifficult because he could not call to mind a
single pertinent military question that she had ever asked him. Such
information as he might have imparted had been incidental to their
talks.

He had enveloped her in glamour; his most preciously trained mental
qualities lapsed in her presence. It was time that she was regarded
impersonally, as a woman, by the critical eye of the chief of staff. A
cool and intense impatience possessed him to study her in the light Of
his new scepticism, when, turning the path of the first terrace, he saw
her watching the sunset over the crest of the range.

She was standing quite still, a slim, soft shadow between him and the
light, which gilded her figure and quarter profile. Did she expect him?
he wondered. Was she posing at that instant for his benefit? And the
answer, could he have searched her secret brain, was, Yes--yes, if the
conscious and the subconscious mind are to be considered as one
responsible intelligence. He usually came at that hour. But he had not
come last night. They had not met since Bouchard's ghost hunt.

There was no firing near by; only desultory artillery practice in the
distance. She heard the familiar crunch of five against three on the
gravel. She knew that he had stopped at the turn of the path, and she
was certain that he was looking at her! But she did not make the
slightest movement. The golden light continued to caress her profile.
Then, crunch, crunch, rather slowly, the five against three drew nearer.
The delay had been welcome; it had been to her a moment's respite to get
her breath before entering the lists. When she turned, her face in the
shadow, the glow of the sunset seemed to remain in her eyes, otherwise
without expression, yet able to detect something unusual under externals
as they exchanged commonplaces of greeting.

"Well, there's a change in our official family. We have lost
Bouchard--transferred to another post!" said Westerling.

Marta noted that, though he gave the news a casual turn, his scrutiny
sharpened.

"Is that so? I can't say that my mother and I shall be sorry," she
remarked. "He was always glaring at us as if he wished us out of his
sight. Indeed, if he had his way, I think he would have made us
prisoners of war. Wasn't he a woman-hater?" she concluded, half in
irritation, half in amusement.

"He had that reputation," said Westerling. "What do you think led to his
departure?" he continued.

"I confess I cannot guess!" s