"Tell me about yourself," she said.

"Dear lady," he began--and it was an effective beginning, for a
sigh of pleasure parted her lips as he spoke--"there is nothing
interesting to tell. I have spent a very commonplace life."

"I think not. You shouldn't call any life commonplace that has
escaped _this_!" The lovely voice was all the richer for the pain
that shook it now. "This monotony, this unending desert of ashes,
this death in life!"

"This town, you mean?"

"This prison, I mean! Everything. Tell me what lies outside of it.
You can."

"What makes you think I can?"

"I don't need to answer that. You understand perfectly."

Valentine Corliss drew in his breath with a sound murmurous of
delight, and for a time they did not speak.

"Yes," he said, finally, "I think I do."

"There are meetings in the desert," he went on, slowly. "A lonely
traveller finds another at a spring, sometimes."

"And sometimes they find that they speak the same language?"