Her white clothes were absolutely perfect in their simplicity, and so was her air of unconcern and indifference.  “The enigma” her friends often called her.  She seemed so frank and simple, and no one ever got beyond the wall of what she was really thinking—­what did she do with her life?  It seemed ridiculous that any one so rich and attractive and young should care to pass long periods of time at a wild spot near Finisterre, in an old chateau perched upon the rocks, completely alone but for an elderly female companion.

There was, of course, some hidden tragedy about her husband—­who was a raging lunatic or an inebriate shut up somewhere—­perhaps there!  They had had to part at once—­he had gone mad on the wedding journey, some believed, but others said this was not at all the case, and that she had married an Indian chief and then parted from him immediately in America—­finding out the horror of being wedded to a savage.  No one knew anything for a fact, only that when she did come into the civilized world, it was always with the Princess Torniloni and her father, who, if they knew the truth of Mrs. Howard’s story, never gave it away.  Men swarmed around her, but she appeared completely unconcerned and friendly with them all, and not even the most envious of the other Americans who were trying to climb into Princess Torniloni’s exclusive society had ever been able to make up any scandals about her.

“I have had such an enchanting walk, Clowdy, dear,” the slim young woman said as she sat down in a basket-chair near Mr. Cloudwater.  “I am so glad we came here, aren’t you?—­and I am sure it will do Moravia no end of good.  She passed me as I was coming from the Aberg on her way to Hans Heiling, so she will not be in yet.  Let us have tea.”

The Arab called the waiter, who brought it to them.  One or two other little groups were having some, too, but Mr. Cloudwater’s party were singularly ungregarious, and avoided making acquaintances in hotels.  He and Mrs. Howard chatted alone together over theirs for about half an hour.  Presently there was the noise of a motor arriving.  It whirled into the gate and stopped where they usually do, a little at one side.  It was very dusty and travel-stained, and beside the chauffeur there got out a tall, fair Englishman.  The personnel of the hotel came forward to meet him with empressement, and as he passed where Mr. Cloudwater and Mrs. Howard were sitting, they heard him say: 

“My servant brought the luggage by train this morning, so I suppose the rooms are ready.”

“They are a wonderful race,” Mr. Cloudwater remarked, “aren’t they, Sabine.  I never can understand why you should so persistently avoid them—­they really have much more in common with ourselves than Latins.”

“That is why perhaps—­one likes contrasts—­and French and Russians, or Germans, are far more intelligent.  Every one to his taste!” and Mrs. Howard smiled.

The Englishman came out again in a few minutes, and sitting down lazily, as though he were alone upon the balcony terrace, he ordered some tea.  Not the remotest scrap of interest in his surroundings or companions lit up his face.  He might have been forty or forty-two, perhaps, but being so fair he looked a good deal younger, and had a peculiar distinction of his own.