So many memories, nearly all happy!  Surely, the most adroit work of the jeweller who put the human soul together was his provision of its power to forget the dark and remember sunshine.  The year and a half of her life with Fiorsen, the empty months that followed it were gone, dispersed like mist by the radiance of the last three years in whose sky had hung just one cloud, no bigger than a hand, of doubt whether Summerhay really loved her as much as she loved him, whether from her company he got as much as the all she got from his.  She would not have been her distrustful self if she could have settled down in complacent security; and her mind was ever at stretch on that point, comparing past days and nights with the days and nights of the present.  Her prevision that, when she loved, it would be desperately, had been fulfilled.  He had become her life.  When this befalls one whose besetting strength and weakness alike is pride—­no wonder that she doubts.

For their Odyssey they had gone to Spain—­that brown un-European land of “lyrio” flowers, and cries of “Agua!” in the streets, where the men seem cleft to the waist when they are astride of horses, under their wide black hats, and the black-clothed women with wonderful eyes still look as if they missed their Eastern veils.  It had been a month of gaiety and glamour, last days of September and early days of October, a revel of enchanted wanderings in the streets of Seville, of embraces and laughter, of strange scents and stranger sounds, of orange light and velvety shadows, and all the warmth and deep gravity of Spain.  The Alcazar, the cigarette-girls, the Gipsy dancers of Triana, the old brown ruins to which they rode, the streets, and the square with its grave talkers sitting on benches in the sun, the water-sellers and the melons; the mules, and the dark ragged man out of a dream, picking up the ends of cigarettes, the wine of Malaga, burnt fire and honey!  Seville had bewitched them—­they got no further.  They had come back across the brown uplands of Castile to Madrid and Goya and Velasquez, till it was time for Paris, before the law-term began.  There, in a queer little French hotel—­all bedrooms, and a lift, coffee and carved beds, wood fires, and a chambermaid who seemed all France, and down below a restaurant, to which such as knew about eating came, with waiters who looked like monks, both fat and lean—­they had spent a week.  Three special memories of that week started up in the moonlight before Gyp’s eyes:  The long drive in the Bois among the falling leaves of trees flashing with colour in the crisp air under a brilliant sky.  A moment in the Louvre before the Leonardo “Bacchus,” when—­his “restored” pink skin forgotten—­all the world seemed to drop away while she listened, with the listening figure before her, to some mysterious music of growing flowers and secret life.  And that last most disconcerting memory, of the night before they returned.  They were having supper after