“I hate them,” she said, pointing to the latter.

“Stars are better,” said her companion.

She turned on him swiftly.

“How did you know I was making comparisons?”

“I felt it,” he murmured.

They walked slowly down the steps.  At the bottom a carriage and pair seemed to rise mysteriously out of the earth.

“‘Ave a drive?  Ver’ good carriage,” said a voice out of the dimness.  Monte Carlo cabmen are unerring in their divination of the Anglo-Saxon.

Why not?  The suggestion awoke in her an instant craving for the true beauty of the land.  It was unconventional, audacious, crazy.  But, again, why not?  Zora Middlemist was answerable for her actions to no man or woman alive.  Why not drink a great draught of the freedom that was hers?  What did it matter that the man was a stranger?  All the more daring the adventure.  Her heart beat gladly.  But chaste women, like children, know instinctively the man they can trust.

“Shall we?”

“Drive?”

“Yes—­unless—­” a thought suddenly striking her—­“unless you want to go back to your friends.”

“Good Lord!” said he, aghast, as if she were accusing him of criminal associations.  “I have no friends.”

“Then come.”

She entered the carriage.  He followed meekly and sat beside her.  Where should they drive?  The cabman suggested the coast road to Mentone.  She agreed.  On the point of starting she observed that her companion was bare-headed.

“You’ve forgotten your hat.”

She spoke to him as she would have done to a child.

“Why bother about hats?”

“You’ll catch your death of cold.  Go and get it at once.”

He obeyed with a docility which sent a little tingle of exaltation through Mrs. Middlemist.  A woman may have an inordinate antipathy to men, but she loves them to do her bidding.  Zora was a woman; she was also young.

He returned.  The cabman whipped up his strong pair of horses, and they started through the town towards Mentone.

Zora lay back on the cushions and drank in the sensuous loveliness of the night—­the warm, scented air, the velvet and diamond sky, the fragrant orange groves—­the dim, mysterious olive trees, the looming hills, the wine-colored, silken sea, with its faint edging of lace on the dusky sweep of the bay.  The spirit of the South overspread her with its wings and took her amorously in its arms.

After a long, long silence she sighed, remembering her companion.

“Thank you for not talking,” she said softly.

“Don’t,” he replied.  “I had nothing to say.  I never talk.  I’ve scarcely talked for a year.”

She laughed idly.

“Why?”

“No one to talk to.  Except my man,” he added conscientiously.  “His name is Wiggleswick.”

“I hope he looks after you well,” said Zora, with a touch of maternal instinct.