If she had not been so exquisite, so skilled in the nuances of life, so swift and elusive in conversation, so well fitted for the finest forms of enjoyment, her renunciation of liberty would not have proved so exasperating to Kate.  A youthful enthusiasm for religion might have made her step understandable.  But enthusiasm and she seemed far apart.  Intelligent as she unquestionably was, she nevertheless seemed to have given herself over supinely to a current of emotions which was sweeping her along.  She looked both pious and piteous, for all of her sophisticated manner and her accomplishments and graces, and Kate felt like throwing a rope to her.  But Mrs. Leger was not in a mood to seize the rope.  She had her curiously gentle mind quite made up.  Though she was still young,—­not quite eighteen years older than her son,—­she appeared to have no further concern for life.  To the last, she was indulging in her delicate vanities—­wore her pearls, walked in charming foot-gear, trailed after her the fascinating gowns of the initiate, and viewed with delight the portfolios of etchings which Dr. von Shierbrand chanced to be purchasing.

She was glad, she said, to be at the Caravansary, quite on a different side of the city from her friends.  She made no attempt to renew old acquaintances or to say farewell to her former associates.  Her extravagant home on the Lake Shore Drive was passed over to a self-congratulatory purchaser; the furnishings were sold at auction; and her other properties were disposed of in such a manner as to make the transfer of her wealth convenient for the recipients.

She asked Kate to go to the station with her.

“I’ve given you my one last friendship,” she said.  “I shall speak with no one on the steamer.  My journey must be spent in preparation for my great change.  But it seems human and warm to have you see me off.”

“It seems inhuman to me, Mrs. Leger,” Kate cried explosively.  “Something terrible has happened to you, I suppose, and you’re hiding away from it.  You think you’re going to drug yourself with prayer.  But can you?  It doesn’t seem at all probable to me.  Dear Mrs. Leger, be brave and stay out in the world with the other living people.”

“You are talking of something which you do not understand,” said Mrs. Leger gently.  “There is a secret manna for the soul of which the chosen may eat.”

“Oh!” cried Kate, almost angrily.  “Are these your own words?  I cannot understand a prepossession like this on your part.  It doesn’t seem to set well on you.  Isn’t there some hideous mistake?  Aren’t you under the influence of some emotional episode?  Might it not be that you were ill without realizing it?  Perhaps you are suffering from some hidden melancholy, and it is impelling you to do something out of keeping with the time and with your own disposition.”

“I can see how it might appear that way to you, Miss Barrington.  But I am not ill, except in my soul, which I expect to be healed in the place to which I am going.  Try to understand that among the many kinds of human beings in this world there are the mystics.  They have a right to their being and to their belief.  Their joys and sorrows are different from those of others, but they are just as existent.  Please do not worry about me.”