"And why were they dreary?"

"Because they were health-resorts--where my poor mother was dying."

"Your poor mother?"--she was all sweet wonder.

"We went from place to place to help her to get better. But she never
did. To the deadly Riviera (I hate it!) to the high Alps, to Algiers,
and far away--a hideous journey--to Colorado."

"And she isn't better?" Miss Fancourt went on.

"She died a year ago."

"Really?--like mine! Only that's years since. Some day you must tell me
about your mother," she added.

He could at first, on this, only gaze at her. "What right things you
say! If you say them to St. George I don't wonder he's in bondage."

It pulled her up for a moment. "I don't know what you mean. He doesn't
make speeches and professions at all--he isn't ridiculous."

"I'm afraid you consider then that I am."

"No, I don't"--she spoke it rather shortly. And then she added: "He
understands--understands everything."

The young man was on the point of saying jocosely: "And I don't--is that