that nothing surprises. Her train was made up of the ugly and the
handsome--bore, prude, wit, and libertine. She gave them all something;
you could feel it. I think she got tired of giving and never taking."

"Is she so beautiful?" asked Lewis.

"Beautiful? Oh, no," said the lady, and then suddenly stopped and
straightened. She laughed. "Now I look back on it all, it seems she must
be beautiful, but--but I know she isn't. Now _I'm_ talking nonsense."

"No, you 're not," said Lewis. "There are women like that." He reached
out for his hat and stick.

"You're not going?" said the lady. "You'll stay to tea?"

Lewis shook his head.

"You've been very kind," he said, "but I must be going."

Without rising, she took the hand that he held out and then sat and
watched his erect figure swing down the drive to the gate. Suddenly she
remembered him. They had been together in school. She did not call him
back. Bores are people that misjudge the values of impressions. The lady
was not a bore; she was a wise woman.

By traveling overland to Rio, Lewis caught the newest and finest of the
big steam-packets plying between Buenos Aires and Southampton. This old
world of his had been moving apace in more ways than one. The years
since, with his father, he had made this same trip were comparatively
few, but during them progress had more than taken a long stride; it had