“No, indeed—­it is experience that ages one—­and by experience she is quite—­two hundred!”

“The wonder is that she still lives.”

“Indeed it is!” “And, being of such a ripe age, it is probable that she, at any rate, has—­been in love.”

“Scores of times!”

“Oh!” said I, puffing very hard at my pipe

“Or fancied so,” said Charmian.  “That,” I replied, “that is a very different thing!”

“Do you think so?”

“Well—­isn’t it?”

“Perhaps.”

“Very well, then, continue, I beg.”

“Now, this woman,” Charmian went on, beginning to curl the tress of hair again, “hating the world about her with its shams, its hypocrisy, and cruelty, ran away from it all, one day, with a villain.”

“And why with a villain?”

“Because he was a villain!”

“That,” said I, turning to look at her, “that I do not understand!”

“No, I didn’t suppose you would,” she answered.

“Hum!” said I, rubbing my chin.  “And why did you run away from him?”

“Because he was a villain.”

“That was very illogical!” said I.

“But very sensible, sir.”

Here there fell a silence between us, and, as we walked, now and then her gown would brush my knee, or her shoulder touch mine, for the path was very narrow.

“And—­did you—­” I began suddenly, and stopped.

“Did I—­what, sir?”

“Did you love him?” said I, staring straight in front of me.

“I—­ran away from him.”

“And—­do you—­love him?”

“I suppose,” said Charmian, speaking very slowly, “I suppose you cannot understand a woman hating and loving a man, admiring and despising him, both at the same time?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Can you understand one glorying in the tempest that may destroy her, riding a fierce horse that may crush her, or being attracted by a will strong and masterful, before which all must yield or break?”

“I think I can.”

“Then,” said Charmian, “this man is strong and wild and very masterful, and so—­I ran away with him.”

“And do you—­love him?”

We walked on some distance ere she answered: 

“I—­don’t know.”

“Not sure, then?”

“No.”

After this we fell silent altogether, yet once, when I happened to glance at her, I saw that her eyes were very bright beneath the shadow of her drooping lashes, and that her lips were smiling; and I pondered very deeply as to why this should be.

Re-entering the cottage, I closed the door, and waited the while she lighted my candle.

And, having taken the candle from her hand, I bade her “Good night,” but paused at the door of my chamber.

“You feel—­quite safe here?”

“Quite safe!”

“Despite the color of my hair and eyes—­you have no fear of —­Peter Smith?”