“Oh, he needn’t seek death,” she said in an indefinable tone.  “I mean as a refuge.  There will be nothing in his life great enough for that.”

“You are angry.  You miss him, I believe, Dona Rita.”

“Angry?  No!  Weary.  But of course it’s very inconvenient.  I can’t very well ride out alone.  A solitary amazon swallowing the dust and the salt spray of the Corniche promenade would attract too much attention.  And then I don’t mind you two knowing that I am afraid of going out alone.”

“Afraid?” we both exclaimed together.

“You men are extraordinary.  Why do you want me to be courageous?  Why shouldn’t I be afraid?  Is it because there is no one in the world to care what would happen to me?”

There was a deep-down vibration in her tone for the first time.  We had not a word to say.  And she added after a long silence: 

“There is a very good reason.  There is a danger.”

With wonderful insight Mills affirmed at once: 

“Something ugly.”

She nodded slightly several times.  Then Mills said with conviction: 

“Ah!  Then it can’t be anything in yourself.  And if so . . . "

I was moved to extravagant advice.

“You should come out with me to sea then.  There may be some danger there but there’s nothing ugly to fear.”

She gave me a startled glance quite unusual with her, more than wonderful to me; and suddenly as though she had seen me for the first time she exclaimed in a tone of compunction: 

“Oh!  And there is this one, too!  Why!  Oh, why should he run his head into danger for those things that will all crumble into dust before long?”

I said:  “You won’t crumble into dust.”  And Mills chimed in: 

“That young enthusiast will always have his sea.”

We were all standing up now.  She kept her eyes on me, and repeated with a sort of whimsical enviousness: 

“The sea!  The violet sea—­and he is longing to rejoin it! . . .  At night!  Under the stars! . . .  A lovers’ meeting,” she went on, thrilling me from head to foot with those two words, accompanied by a wistful smile pointed by a suspicion of mockery.  She turned away.

“And you, Monsieur Mills?” she asked.

“I am going back to my books,” he declared with a very serious face.  “My adventure is over.”

“Each one to his love,” she bantered us gently.  “Didn’t I love books, too, at one time!  They seemed to contain all wisdom and hold a magic power, too.  Tell me, Monsieur Mills, have you found amongst them in some black-letter volume the power of foretelling a poor mortal’s destiny, the power to look into the future?  Anybody’s future . . .”  Mills shook his head. . .  “What, not even mine?” she coaxed as if she really believed in a magic power to be found in books.

Mills shook his head again.  “No, I have not the power,” he said.  “I am no more a great magician, than you are a poor mortal.  You have your ancient spells.  You are as old as the world.  Of us two it’s you that are more fit to foretell the future of the poor mortals on whom you happen to cast your eyes.”