theory, or moral, is the old self-evident one which a certain modern novelist has been fond of repeating: that what you feel is truer, and must always be truer, than the mere idea that passes through your mind. Or, in other words: rely in your judgment on touch, not on sight. But people in these days lack the courage to act as they feel; they act according to reason, and then afterwards try to invent a logical explanation to account for the singular things that happen to them. But there is no use in that — no use at all.

"The ship was bound for South America. She left Tilbury on a rainy December afternoon, but the next day the sea was as calm as a blue pond in summer, and it stayed so for three days, until we had crossed the Bay of Biscay. Yet in spite of the calm sea we were late in reaching Lisbon, and when we arrived the port officials fell to disputing endlessly, as though they had resolved that we should be delayed in putting out of harbor. I stood watching the passengers coming down and listening to the noisy Portuguese quarrel rising and scattering like damp rockets between the ship's agent and one of the customs officers... Among the new pas-sengers no one caught the eye except an English woman and her husband. She was truly beautiful, but her beauty was of a strange kind, as though she were a Greek goddess of fate. Her eyes were wide and of a deep blue in which one could read many meanings — one of them true and many of them false. Her startled, stony features were like a classical statue in which something of tragedy lay hidden. Then I thought — or rather I should say I felt — that there was something of the mermaid in her features, for her eyes belonged to the sea... Her husband, at her side, looked quite ordinary. But her

singular appearance was confined to her face; her clothes seemed to have been chosen so as to efface the impression left by her strange beauty, to bring down its loftiness and make it ordinary and familiar.

"The next morning I was sitting on deck, as I sit with you now, and found myself next to her. After we had toyed a while with our books — a toying that resembled, in its restlessness, the movement and rolling of ships (truly there is a strong bond between seasickness and printed books) — we began to talk a little. And when we talked, no unusual impression was left upon the soul; her voice was calm, full of interest, steady in its tones though somewhat empty, and there was in it no strange element of tragedy or of prophecy. Yet in spite of that I knew — nay, I felt and sensed — that she was joined to those strange elements by close ties. We chatted for two hours or more. Before that the sea had been calm as a carpet, but during our conversation unmistakable signs of change began to show upon it, as though it were testing its powers, to use them on some coming occasion. Light winds stirred along its flanks, and the ship took on a roll that provoked the customary jokes and laughter among the young passengers, who moved noisily about the deck, and it doubled the ardor of those at their various games, who grew merrier still, to hide the first stirrings of nausea and queasiness they felt... You ask me what we talked about?... I have forgotten; but it was various things — politics, and travel, and books — innocent, tedious books.

"But with every passing minute talk grew harder, for from time to time the sounds of colliding objects rose up, and the wind roared louder, though the corner

we had chosen was sheltered and somewhat quiet... She told me they were going to Buenos Aires, where they would stay a week and then return home directly. For Mr. Rofni — that was her husband's name — had been ill, and the doctor had advised him to take this sea voyage. The husband said: 'I tried to dissuade my wife from coming, but she insisted. I did not lure you into coming, my darling, did I? I did my utmost to prevent you.'

"No, I cannot recall the whole conversation clearly; I remember only a thing or two of this kind. I remember Mrs. Rofni saying, in her firm voice that would suffer no nonsense or frivolity, and which was nonetheless strangely empty — that voice which uttered things as though they did not concern it — I remember her saying: 'In any case, I believe in fate and destiny. You cannot escape what is going to happen to you; it is what it is, and there is nothing for you but to accept it as best you can. No fox can escape forever, if the hounds are after it.' ... I remember that well, for the remark, though it is a familiar thing we have all heard whether we would or no, vexed me then most severely, so that I could scarcely hide my displeasure. For I found it out of keeping with that strange beauty, or with that face which seemed to be awaiting one of the great passions of feeling — and I was certain that passion was fear — for the moment that feeling came, that face would become a marvelous wonder of expression... But how often, in such cases, do people utter thoughts that disappoint one, since they do not harmonize with them... Then she ran on talking about the markets in the English counties, and gave herself up to slight fits of self-regard which did not harmonize with her either.

"But I asked myself at the