ground at his feet, its white garments gathering about it as though
they were sentiently aware that they must keep the line of classic
beauty in every fold.

"Boredom is the trouble"--she went on--"No one escapes it. The very
babies of to-day are bored. We all know too much. People used to be
happy because they were ignorant--they had no sort of idea why they
were born, or what they came into the world for. Now they've learned
the horrid truth that they are only here just as the trees and
flowers are here--to breed other trees and flowers and then go out
of it--for no purpose, apparently. They are 'disillusioned.' They
say 'what's the use?' To put up with so much trouble and labour for
the folks coining after us whom we shall never see,--it seems
perfectly foolish and futile. They used to believe in another life
after this--but that hope has been knocked out of them. Besides it's
quite open to question whether any of us would care to live again.
Probably it might mean more boredom. There's really nothing left.
That's why so many of us go reckless--it's just to escape being
bored."

He listened in cold silence. After a pause--

"Have you done?" he said.

She looked up at him. The moonbeams set tiny frosty sparkles in her
eyes.

"Have I done?" she echoed--"No,--not quite! I love talking--and it's
a new and amusing sensation for me to talk to a man in his shirt-
sleeves on a hill in California by the light of the moon! So wild