To this day I am not quite certain whether it was the name of any human habitation, a lonely caserio with a half-effaced carving of a coat of arms over its door, or of some hamlet at the dead end of a ravine with a stony slope at the back.  It might have been a hill for all I know or perhaps a stream.  A wood, or perhaps a combination of all these:  just a bit of the earth’s surface.  Once I asked her where exactly it was situated and she answered, waving her hand cavalierly at the dead wall of the room:  “Oh, over there.”  I thought that this was all that I was going to hear but she added moodily, “I used to take my goats there, a dozen or so of them, for the day.  From after my uncle had said his Mass till the ringing of the evening bell.”

I saw suddenly the lonely spot, sketched for me some time ago by a few words from Mr. Blunt, populated by the agile, bearded beasts with cynical heads, and a little misty figure dark in the sunlight with a halo of dishevelled rust-coloured hair about its head.

The epithet of rust-coloured comes from her.  It was really tawny.  Once or twice in my hearing she had referred to “my rust-coloured hair” with laughing vexation.  Even then it was unruly, abhorring the restraints of civilization, and often in the heat of a dispute getting into the eyes of Madame de Lastaola, the possessor of coveted art treasures, the heiress of Henry Allegre.  She proceeded in a reminiscent mood, with a faint flash of gaiety all over her face, except her dark blue eyes that moved so seldom out of their fixed scrutiny of things invisible to other human beings.

“The goats were very good.  We clambered amongst the stones together.  They beat me at that game.  I used to catch my hair in the bushes.”

“Your rust-coloured hair,” I whispered.

“Yes, it was always this colour.  And I used to leave bits of my frock on thorns here and there.  It was pretty thin, I can tell you.  There wasn’t much at that time between my skin and the blue of the sky.  My legs were as sunburnt as my face; but really I didn’t tan very much.  I had plenty of freckles though.  There were no looking-glasses in the Presbytery but uncle had a piece not bigger than my two hands for his shaving.  One Sunday I crept into his room and had a peep at myself.  And wasn’t I startled to see my own eyes looking at me!  But it was fascinating, too.  I was about eleven years old then, and I was very friendly with the goats, and I was as shrill as a cicada and as slender as a match.  Heavens!  When I overhear myself speaking sometimes, or look at my limbs, it doesn’t seem to be possible.  And yet it is the same one.  I do remember every single goat.  They were very clever.  Goats are no trouble really; they don’t scatter much.  Mine never did even if I had to hide myself out of their sight for ever so long.”

It was but natural to ask her why she wanted to hide, and she uttered vaguely what was rather a comment on my question: