or position that hasn’t been talked about in the Pavilion before me.  Of him I had only heard that he was a very austere and pious person, always at Mass, and that sort of thing.  I saw a frail little man with a long, yellow face and sunken fanatical eyes, an Inquisitor, an unfrocked monk.  One missed a rosary from his thin fingers.  He gazed at me terribly and I couldn’t imagine what he might want.  I waited for him to pull out a crucifix and sentence me to the stake there and then.  But no; he dropped his eyes and in a cold, righteous sort of voice informed me that he had called on behalf of the prince—­he called him His Majesty.  I was amazed by the change.  I wondered now why he didn’t slip his hands into the sleeves of his coat, you know, as begging Friars do when they come for a subscription.  He explained that the Prince asked for permission to call and offer me his condolences in person.  We had seen a lot of him our last two months in Paris that year.  Henry Allegre had taken a fancy to paint his portrait.  He used to ride with us nearly every morning.  Almost without thinking I said I should be pleased.  Don Rafael was shocked at my want of formality, but bowed to me in silence, very much as a monk bows, from the waist.  If he had only crossed his hands flat on his chest it would have been perfect.  Then, I don’t know why, something moved me to make him a deep curtsy as he backed out of the room, leaving me suddenly impressed, not only with him but with myself too.  I had my door closed to everybody else that afternoon and the Prince came with a very proper sorrowful face, but five minutes after he got into the room he was laughing as usual, made the whole little house ring with it.  You know his big, irresistible laugh. . . .”

“No,” said Mills, a little abruptly, “I have never seen him.”

“No,” she said, surprised, “and yet you . . . "

“I understand,” interrupted Mills.  “All this is purely accidental.  You must know that I am a solitary man of books but with a secret taste for adventure which somehow came out; surprising even me.”

She listened with that enigmatic, still, under the eyelids glance, and a friendly turn of the head.

“I know you for a frank and loyal gentleman. . .  Adventure—­and books?  Ah, the books!  Haven’t I turned stacks of them over!  Haven’t I? . . .”

“Yes,” murmured Mills.  “That’s what one does.”

She put out her hand and laid it lightly on Mills’ sleeve.

“Listen, I don’t need to justify myself, but if I had known a single woman in the world, if I had only had the opportunity to observe a single one of them, I would have been perhaps on my guard.  But you know I hadn’t.  The only woman I had anything to do with was myself, and they say that one can’t know oneself.  It never entered my head to be on my guard against his warmth and his terrible obviousness.  You and he were the only two, infinitely different, people, who didn’t approach me as if I had been a precious object in a collection, an ivory carving or a piece of Chinese porcelain.  That’s why I have kept you in my memory so well.  Oh! you were not obvious!  As to him—­I soon learned to regret I was not some object, some beautiful, carved object of bone or bronze; a rare piece of porcelain, pate dure, not pate tendre.  A pretty specimen.”