distant hills, tender blue lights gathered lovingly around the copses.
Mrs. Kame sighed.

"What a terrible thing it is," she said, "that we are never satisfied!
It's the men who ruin all this for us, I believe, and prevent our
enjoying it. Look at Adele."

Honora had indeed looked at her.

"I found out the other day what is the matter with her. She's madly in
love with Dicky."

"With--with her former husband?"

"Yes, with poor little innocent Dicky Farnham, who's probably still
congratulating himself, like a canary bird that's got out of a cage.
Somehow Dicky's always reminded me of a canary; perhaps it's his name.
Isn't it odd that she should be in love with him?"

"I think," replied Honora, slowly, "that it's a tragedy."

"It is a tragedy," Mrs. Kame hastily agreed. "To me, this case is one of
the most incomprehensible aspects of the tender passion. Adele's idea of
existence is a steeplechase with nothing but water-jumps, Dicky's to
loiter around in a gypsy van, and sit in the sun. During his brief
matrimonial experience with her, he nearly died for want of breath--or
rather the life was nearly shaken out of him. And yet she wants Dicky
again. She'd run away with him to-morrow if he should come within hailing
distance of her."