hisfancy
.
She
must
be
one
of
the
persons
who
lately
occupied
the
empty
chairs
,
and
have
come
in
search
of
some
object
left
behind
.
He
recollects
having
noticed
an
open
book
lying
on
the
low
parapet
.
She
has
a
white
gown
;
but
what
more
can
be
predicated
of
her
in
this
owl-light
?
The
radiance
from
the
candle
behind
him
makes
a
small
illuminated
square
upon
the
terrace
,
falling
between
the
bars
of
the
window
through
which
the
Moorish
ladies
once
darted
their
dark
and
ineffectual
ogles
.
Having
apparently
accomplished
her
errand
,
the
white-gowned
figure
obligingly
steps
into
the
illumined
square
,
and
still
more
obligingly
lifts
her
face
and
looks
directly
up
at
him
.
It
is
clear
that
the
action
is
dictated
only
by
the
impulse
which
prompts
all
seeing
creatures
to
turn
lightwards
,
and
no
gleam
of
recognition
kindles
in
the
eyes
that
are
averted
almost
as
soon
as
directed
towards
him
.
Placed
as
he
is
,
with
his
back
to
the
light
,
his
own
mother
could
not
have
distinguished
his
features
;
and
,
after
her
one
careless
glance
,
the
white-gowned
lady
turns
away
and
disappears
again
into
the
gloom
.
She
has
one
more
oasis
of
light
to
traverse
before
she
reaches
the
hotel
porch
,
just
discernible
,
gleaming
in
its
whitewash
,
at
the
far
end
of
the
terrace
;
just
one
more
lit
window
throws
its
chequered
lustre
on
the
tiles
.
He
presses
his
face
against
the
bars
of
his
own
lattice
,
and
holds
his
breath
until
she
has
reached
and
crossed
that
tell-tale
patch
.
Her
traversing
of
it
does
not
occupy
the
tenth
part
of
a
second
,
and
yet
it
puts
the
seal
upon
what
he
already
knows
.
Five
minutes
later
he
is
standing
before
the
case
,
hung
on
the
wall
of
the
entrance
hall
,
which
contains
the
names
and
numbers
of
the
rooms
of
the
visitors
,
eagerly
scanning
them
with
eye
and
finger
.
He
scans
them
in
vain
.
The
name
he
seeks
is
not
among
them
.
Had
it
not
been
for
that
five
minutes
'
delay
—
that
five
minutes
of
stunned
and
stupid
staring
out
into
the
dark
after
her
—
he
must
have
met
her
in
the
hall
.
He
is
turning
away
in
baffled
disappointment
,
when
the
little
host
again
accosts
him
.
Monsieur
must
excuse
him
,
but
he
must
explain
that
the
list
of
visitors
that
monsieur
has
been
so
obliging
as
to
peruse
is
by
no
means
a
full
or
correct
one
.
To-morrow
morning
he
shall
have
the
pleasure
of
placing
beneath
monsieur
's
eye
a
proper
and
complete
list
of
the
visitors
;
but
,
in
point
of
fact
,
there
has
been
such
a
press
of
business
,
he
has
been
daily
obliged
to
turn
away
such
large
and
comme
il
faut
families
from
the
door
,
that
time
has
been
inadequate
for
all
his
obligations
,
which
must
be
his
excuse
.
Burgoyne
accepts
his
apologies
in
silence
.
It
would
seem
easy
enough
to
inquire
whether
among
the
English
visitors
there
are
any
of
the
name
of
Le
Marchant
;
but
the
question
sticks
in
his
throat
.
It
is
seven
months
since
he
has
pronounced
that
name
aloud
,
and
he
appears
to
have
lost
the
faculty
of
doing
it
.
The
host
comes
to
his
aid
.
Is
there
perhaps
a
family
—
a
friend
whom
monsieur
expects
to
meet
?
But
monsieur
only
shakes
his
head
,
and
moves
away
.
He
has
ascertained
that
the
table
d'hôte
is
at
seven
,
and
it
is
now
half-past
five
.
He
has
,
therefore
,
only
an
hour
and
a
half
of
suspense
ahead
of
him
.
She
will
surely
appear
at
the
table
d'hôte
?
But
will
she
?
As
the
hour
of
seven
approaches
,
ever
graver
and
graver
doubts
upon
this
head
assail
his
mind
,
both
when
he
reflects
upon
how
much
it
is
a
habit
with
the
better
sort
of
travelling
English
to
dine
in
their
own
rooms
,
and
also
when
he
calls
to
mind
the
extremely
retired
character
of
Elizabeth
's
and
her
mother
's
habits
.
Even
if
she
does
appear
in
the
public
room
—
and
the
more
he
thinks
of
it
,
the
less
probable
,
it
seems
—
it
is
most
unlikely
that
he
will
be
placed
near
her
.
But
he
might
possibly
intercept
her
in
the
hall
on
her
way
to
the
salle
à
manger
.
In
pursuance
of
this
project
he
takes
up
his
position
before
the
bell
,
tingling
so
lengthily
as
to
reach
the
ears
of
the
deafest
and
most
distant
,
has
summoned
the
company
together
;
and
it
is
several
minutes
before
enough
are
assembled
to
justify
,
according
to
the
etiquette
prevailing
at
the
Grand
Hotel
,
a
move
to
the
dining-room
.
Men
,
at
that
hotel
,
although
in
a
very
distinct
minority
—
as
when
,
indeed
,
are
they
not
?
—
are
yet
not
quite
the
same
choice
rarities
as
at
some
of
the
Swiss
and
Italian
ones
.
But
the
young
of
the
one
sex
are
perennially
interesting
to
the
other
;
and
Burgoyne
,
as
"
the
new
man
,
"
is
an
object
of
some
attention
to
half
a
dozen
young
girls
,
and
even
to
two
or
three
sprightly-hearted
old
ones
.
His
eyes
are
eagerly
shining
as
each
opening
door
,
each
step
on
the
staircase
,
raises
his
hopes
afresh
.
But
neither
door
nor
staircase
yields
the
form
he
seeks
,
and
he
is
at
last
obliged
,
under
penalty
of
exciting
remark
,
reluctantly
to
follow
the
band
that
go
trooping
hungrily
down
a
flight
of
steps
to
the
whitewashed
dining-room
.
He
finds
himself
placed
between
a
bouncing
widow
who
is
too
much
occupied
in
fondling
an
old
valetudinarian
on
her
other
side
to
have
much
notice
to
spare
for
him
;
and
a
sparkling
creature
of
five-and-thirty
in
a
red
shirt
,
who
,
before
dinner
is
over
,
confides
to
him
that
she
fears
she
has
not
got
a
nice
nature
,
and
that
she
cannot
get
on
at
home
because
her
mother
and
the
servants
insist
upon
having
cold
supper
instead
of
dinner
on
Sunday
.
When
she
tells
him
that
she
has
not
a
nice
nature
,
he
absently
replies
that
he
is
very
sorry
for
it
,
and
her
confidence
about
the
Sunday
supper
provokes
from
him
only
the
extremely
stupid
observation
that
he
supposes
she
does
not
like
cold
meat
.
It
is
a
wonder
that
he
can
answer
her
even
as
rationally
as
he
does
.
It
is
more
by
good
luck
than
good
management
that
there
is
any
sense
at
all
in
his
responses
.
And
yet
he
may
as
well
give
his
full
attention
to
his
neighbour
,
for
now
every
place
at
the
E-shaped
table
is
filled
up
,
and
,
travel
as
his
eye
may
over
those
who
sit
,
both
at
the
long
and
cross-boards
,
it
fails
to
discover
any
face
in
the
least
resembling
that
which
lifted
itself
from
the
dusk
terrace
into
his
candle-light
.
Was
it
her
little
ghost
,
then
,
that
he
had
seen
,
her
dainty
delicate
ghost
?
But
why
should
it
appear
to
him
here
?
Why
haunt
these
unfamiliar
shores
?
The
only
places
in
the
room
which
still
remain
untenanted
are
those
at
a
round
table
laid
for
three
,
in
the
embrasure
of
a
Moorish
window
,
not
very
distant
from
where
he
sits
.
On
first
catching
sight
of
it
his
hopes
had
risen
,
only
immediately
to
fall
again
,
as
he
realizes
that
it
is
destined
for
a
trio
.
Why
should
three
places
be
laid
for
Elizabeth
and
her
mother
?
With
a
disheartened
sigh
he
tums
to
his
neighbour
,
intending
to
put
to
her
a
question
as
to
the
habitual
occupants
of
the
empty
table
;
but
she
is
apparently
affronted
at
his
tepidness
,
and
presents
to
him
only
the
well-frizzled
back
of
her
expensive
head
.
He
is
reduced
to
listening
to
the
conversation
of
his
vis-à-vis
,
an
elderly
couple
,
who
have
been
upon
some
excursion
,
and
are
detailing
their
experiences
to
those
around
them
.
They
have
been
to
Blidah
apparently
,
and
seen
real
live
monkeys
hopping
about
without
organs
or
red
coats
on
real
palm
trees
.
He
is
drawn
into
the
conversation
by
a
question
addressed
to
him
as
to
his
journey
.
It
is
five
minutes
before
he
again
looks
towards
the
table
in
the
window
.
His
first
glance
reveals
that
the
three
persons
for
whom
it
is
destined
have
at
length
arrived
and
taken
their
seats
.
Idiot
that
he
is
!
he
had
forgotten
Mr.
Le
Marchant
's
existence
.
"
They
are
nice-looking
people
,
are
they
not
?
"
says
his
neighbour
in
the
red
shirt
,
apparently
repenting
of
her
late
austerity
,
and
following
the
direction
of
his
eyes
;
"
but
they
give
themselves
great
airs
;
nobody
in
the
hotel
is
good
enough
for
them
to
speak
to
.
M
.
Cipriani
evidently
thinks
them
people
of
importance
;
he
makes
twice
as
much
fuss
about
them
as
he
does
about
anyone
else
.
Look
at
him
now
!
"
And
in
effect
the
obsequious
little
host
may
be
seen
hanging
anxiously
over
the
newcomers
,
evidently
asking
them
with
solicitous
civility
whether
the
not
particularly
appetizing
fish
(
the
strongest
point
of
the
blue
Mediterranean
does
not
lie
in
her
fishes
,
of
which
some
are
coarse
,
some
tasteless
,
and
some
even
lie
under
the
suspicion
of
having
poisonous
qualities
)
—
whether
it
is
not
to
their
liking
.
At
something
that
M
.
Cipriani
says
they
all
laugh
.
Elizabeth
,
indeed
,
throws
back
her
little
head
,
and
shows
all
her
perfect
teeth
,
in
a
paroxysm
of
the
most
genuine
mirth
.
It
gives
Burgoyne
a
sort
of
shock
to
see
her
laugh
.
Not
a
day
,
scarcely
an
hour
,
has
passed
since
he
last
saw
her
in
which
he
has
not
pictured
her
as
doing
or
suffering
,
or
living
through
something
;
he
has
never
pictured
her
laughing
.
It
seems
to
him
now
but
a
moment
since
he
was
reading
her
broken-hearted
,
tear-stained
note
;
since
he
was
seeing
Byng
grovelling
in
all
the
utter
collapse
of
his
ungoverned
grief
on
the
floor
of
the
little
Florentine
entresol
.
What
business
has
she
to
laugh
?
And
how
unchanged
she
is
!
How
much
less
outwardly
aged
than
he
himself
is
conscious
of
being
!
Sitting
as
she
now
is
,
in
her
simple
white
tea-gown
,
with
one
slight
elbow
rested
on
the
table
,
her
eyes
all
sparkling
with
merriment
and
laughter
,
bringing
into
prominence
that
one
enchanting
dimple
of
hers
,
she
does
not
look
more
than
twenty
.
But
a
few
moments
later
he
forgives
her
even
her
dimple
.
However
empressé
may
be
the
little
landlord
,
he
has
to
move
away
after
a
time
;
and
the
merriment
moves
away
,
too
,
out
of
Elizabeth
's
face
.
Jim
watches
it
decline
,
through
the
degrees
of
humorous
disgust
,
as
she
pushes
the
coarse
white
fish
about
her
plate
,
without
tasting
it
(
she
was
always
a
very
delicate
eater
)
,
into
a
settled
gravity
.
And
now
that
she
is
grave
he
sees
that
she
is
aged
,
almost
as
much
as
he
himself
,
after
all
.
Her
eyes
had
ever
had
the
air
of
having
shed
in
their
time
many
tears
;
but
since
he
last
saw
her
,
it
is
now
evident
to
him
that
the
tale
of
those
tears
has
been
a
good
deal
added
to
.
There
is
no
pleasing
him
.
He
was
angry
with
her
when
he
thought
her
gay
,
and
now
he
quarrels
with
her
for
looking
sad
.
As
if
,
in
her
unconsciousness
of
his
neighbourhood
,
she
was
yet
determined
to
give
him
no
cause
of
complaint
,
she
presently
again
lays
aside
her
sorrowful
looks
,
and
,
drawing
her
chair
confidentially
nearer
to
her
mother
's
,
makes
some
remark
of
an
evidently
comic
nature
upon
the
company
into
her
ear
.
They
stoop
their
heads
together
—
what
friends
they
always
were
,
she
and
her
mother
!
—
and
again
the
blue
twinkle
comes
into
her
eyes
;
the
dimple
's
little
pitfall
is
dug
anew
in
her
white
cheek
.
Was
there
ever
such
an
April
creature
?
Mr.
Le
Marchant
appears
to
take
no
part
in
the
jokes
;
he
goes
on
eating
his
dinner
silently
,
and
his
back
,
which
is
turned
towards
Burgoyne
,
looks
morose
.
How
is
it
that
Elizabeth
's
roving
eye
has
not
yet
hit
upon
himself
?
He
sees
presently
that
the
cause
lies
in
the
fact
of
her
look
alighting
upon
old
and
known
objects
of
entertainment
,
rather
than
going
in
search
of
new
ones
.
But
it
must
sooner
or
later
embrace
him
in
its
range
.
The
fond
fat
widow
beside
him
must
surely
be
one
of
her
favourites
,
and
,
in
point
of
fact
,
as
he
feverishly
watches
to
see
the
inevitable
moment
of
recognition
arrive
,
he
perceives
that
Miss
Le
Marchant
and
her
mother
are
delightedly
—
though
not
so
openly
as
to
be
patent
to
the
rest
of
the
room
—
observing
her
.
And
then
comes
the
expected
careless
glance
at
him
,
and
the
no
less
expected
transformation
.
Her
elbows
have
been
carelessly
resting
on
the
table
,
and
she
has
just
been
pressing
her
laughing
lips
against
her
lightly-joined
hands
to
conceal
their
merriment
.
In
an
instant
he
sees
the
right
hand
go
out
in
a
silent
desperate
clutch
at
her
mother
's
,
and
the
next
second
he
knows
that
she
also
has
seen
him
.
They
both
stare
helplessly
at
him
—
at
least
,
the
one
at
him
,
and
the
other
beyond
him
!
How
well
he
remembers
that
look
of
hers
over
his
shoulder
in
search
of
someone
else
.
But
yet
it
is
not
the
old
look
,
for
that
was
one
of
hope
and
red
expectation
.
Is
there
any
hope
or
expectation
lurking
even
under
the
white
dread
of
this
one
?
His
jealous
heart
is
afraid
quite
to
say
no
to
this
question
,
and
yet
an
indisputable
look
of
relief
spreads
over
her
face
as
she
ascertains
that
he
is
alone
.
She
even
collects
herself
enough
to
give
him
a
tiny
inclination
of
the
head
—
an
example
followed
by
her
mother
;
but
they
are
,
in
both
cases
,
so
tiny
as
to
be
unperceived
,
save
by
the
person
to
whom
they
are
addressed
.
He
would
not
have
been
offended
by
the
minuteness
of
their
salutations
,
even
had
he
not
divined
that
it
was
dictated
by
a
desire
—
however
futile
—
to
conceal
the
fact
of
his
presence
from
their
companion
.
His
heart
goes
out
in
all
the
profundity
of
his
former
pity
towards
them
,
as
he
sees
how
entirely
that
one
glance
at
him
(
for
she
does
not
look
again
in
his
direction
)
has
dried
the
fountain
of
Elizabeth
's
poor
little
jests
;
of
how
white
and
grave
and
frightened
,
and
even
shrunk
,
his
mere
presence
has
made
her
.
Now
that
they
have
detected
him
,
good
breeding
,
and
even
humanity
,
forbid
his
continuing
any
longer
his
watch
upon
them
.
The
better
to
set
them
at
ease
he
turns
the
back
of
his
head
towards
their
table
,
and
compels
the
reluctant
widow
to
relinquish
her
invalid
booty
for
fully
ten
minutes
in
his
favour
.
Perhaps
when
Elizabeth
can
see
only
the
back
of
his
head
she
may
resume
her
jokes
.
But
all
the
same
he
knows
that
,
for
her
,
there
will
be
no
more
mirth
to-day
.
"
That
is
what
they
always
do
!
"
cries
a
voice
on
Burgoyne
's
left
hand
—
the
voice
of
his
other
neighbour
,
who
begins
to
think
that
his
attention
has
been
usurped
quite
long
enough
by
her
plump
rival
.
"
That
is
what
they
always
do
—
come
long
after
dinner
has
begun
,
and
go
out
long
before
it
has
ended
.
Such
swagger
!
"
There
is
a
tinge
of
exasperation
in
both
words
and
voice
,
nor
is
the
cause
far
to
seek
.
The
table
in
the
window
is
again
empty
.
In
the
meantime
the
"
swaggering
"
Elizabeth
is
clinging
tremblingly
about
her
mother
's
neck
in
the
privacy
of
their
own
little
salon
.
The
absence
of
the
husband
and
father
for
the
moment
in
the
smoking-room
has
removed
the
irksome
restraint
from
both
the
poor
women
.
"
Did
you
see
him
?
"
asks
Elizabeth
breathlessly
,
as
soon
as
the
door
is
safely
closed
upon
them
,
flinging
herself
down
upon
her
knees
beside
Mrs.
Le
Marchant
,
who
has
sunk
into
a
chair
,
and
cowering
close
to
her
as
if
for
shelter
.
"
What
is
he
doing
here
?
Why
has
he
come
?
When
first
I
caught
sight
of
him
I
thought
that
of
course
—
"
She
breaks
off
,
sobbing
;
"
and
when
I
saw
that
he
was
alone
I
was
relieved
;
but
I
was
disappointed
too
!
Oh
,
I
must
be
a
fool
—
a
bad
fool
—
but
I
was
disappointed
!
Oh
,
mammy
!
mammy
!
how
seeing
him
again
brings
it
all
back
!
"
"
Do
not
cry
,
dear
child
!
do
not
cry
!
"
answers
Mrs.
Le
Marchant
apprehensively
;
though
the
voice
in
which
she
gives
the
exhortation
is
shaking
too
.
"
Your
father
will
be
in
directly
;
and
you
know
how
angry
—
—
"
"
I
will
not
!
I
will
not
!
"
cries
Elizabeth
,
trying
,
with
her
usual
extreme
docility
,
to
swallow
her
tears
;
"
and
I
do
not
show
it
much
when
I
have
been
crying
;
my
eyes
do
not
mind
it
as
much
as
most
people
's
;
I
suppose
"
—
with
a
small
rainy
smile
—
"
because
they
are
so
used
to
it
!
"
"
Perhaps
he
will
not
stay
long
,
"
murmurs
the
mother
,
dropping
a
fond
rueful
kiss
on
the
prone
blonde
head
that
lies
on
her
knees
;
"
perhaps
if
we
are
careful
we
may
avoid
speaking
to
him
.
"
"
But
I
must
speak
to
him
,
"
breaks
in
the
girl
,
lifting
her
head
,
and
panting
;
"
I
must
ask
him
;
I
must
find
out
;
why
,
we
do
not
even
know
whether
Willy
is
dead
or
alive
!
"
"
He
is
not
dead
,
"
rejoins
the
elder
woman
,
with
melancholy
common-sense
;
"
if
he
had
been
,
we
should
have
seen
it
in
the
papers
;
and
,
besides
,
why
should
he
be
?
Grief
does
not
kill
;
nobody
,
Elizabeth
,
is
better
able
to
attest
that
than
you
and
I
.
"
Elizabeth
is
now
sitting
on
the
floor
,
her
hands
clasped
round
her
knees
.
"
He
is
aged
,
"
she
says
presently
;
and
this
time
it
is
evident
that
the
pronoun
refers
to
Burgoyne
.
Mrs.
Le
Marchant
assents
.
"
He
must
have
cared
more
for
that
poor
creature
than
we
gave
him
credit
for
.
Get
up
,
darling
;
dry
your
eyes
,
and
sit
with
your
back
to
the
light
;
here
comes
your
father
!
"
CHAPTER
II
.
One
of
the
reasons
,
though
not
the
sole
or
even
the
main
one
,
of
Burgoyne
's
visit
to
Algiers
is
that
the
Wilson
family
are
wintering
there
.
And
yet
he
dreads
the
meeting
with
them
inexpressibly
.
When
they
last
parted
,
immediately
after
having
stood
together
round
Amelia
's
open
grave
,
they
had
all
been
at
a
high
pressure
of
emotion
,
and
of
demonstrative
affectionateness
,
which
nothing
in
their
tastes
,
habits
,
or
natures
could
possibly
make
continuous
.
He
has
a
horrible
fear
that
they
will
expect
to
take
up
their
relations
at
the
same
point
at
which
he
had
left
them
.
He
would
do
it
if
he
could
,
but
he
feels
that
it
is
absolutely
impossible
to
him
.
The
door
of
that
room
in
his
memory
which
is
labelled
"
Amelia
"
is
for
ever
locked
.
It
is
only
in
deepest
silence
and
solitude
that
he
permits
himself
now
and
again
to
turn
the
key
and
sparely
and
painfully
look
in
.
How
will
he
bear
it
if
they
insist
on
throwing
the
portals
wide
,
dragging
its
disused
furniture
to
the
light
,
rummaging
in
its
corners
?
He
sleeps
ill
on
this
,
his
first
night
of
Africa
;
and
even
when
at
length
he
succeeds
in
losing
importunate
consciousness
,
he
is
teased
by
absurd
yet
painful
dreams
,
in
which
Amelia
and
Elizabeth
jostle
each
other
impossibly
with
jumbled
personalities
and
changed
attributes
.
Extravagant
as
his
visions
are
,
they
have
yet
such
a
solid
vividness
that
,
at
his
first
waking
,
he
feels
a
strange
sense
of
unsureness
as
to
which
of
the
two
women
that
have
beset
his
pillow
is
the
dead
,
and
which
the
living
one
.
In
dreams
,
how
often
our
lost
ones
,
and
those
whom
we
still
possess
,
take
hands
together
on
equal
terms
!
Even
when
he
is
wide
awake
,
nay
more
,
dressed
and
breakfasted
,
that
feeling
of
uncertainty
,
that
something
akin
to
the
"
Blank
misgivings
of
a
creature
,
Moving
about
in
worlds
not
realized
,
"
remains
strong
enough
to
drive
him
once
again
to
the
list
of
visitors
in
the
entrance-hall
,
in
order
to
assure
himself
that
his
brain
has
not
been
the
dupe
of
his
eye
.
M
.
Cipriani
has
been
as
good
as
his
word
.
The
corrected
list
,
promised
overnight
,
has
replaced
the
incomplete
one
,
and
almost
the
first
names
that
Jim
's
eye
alights
upon
are
those
of
"
Mr.
,
Mrs.
,
and
Miss
Le
Marchant
,
England
.
"
His
own
name
immediately
follows
,
and
he
takes
as
a
good
augury
what
is
merely
an
accident
due
to
the
fact
of
his
room
and
theirs
being
on
one
floor
.
Elizabeth
is
,
beyond
question
,
beneath
the
same
roof
as
himself
;
nay
,
even
now
she
may
probably
be
sunning
herself
like
a
white
pigeon
on
that
terrace
,
whose
red
tiles
he
sees
shining
in
the
morning
sun
through
an
open
side-door
.
The
thought
is
no
sooner
formed
than
he
follows
whither
it
leads
him
;
but
she
is
not
on
the
terrace
;
and
though
a
moment
ago
his
nerves
were
tingling
at
the
thought
of
speech
with
her
,
yet
he
is
conscious
of
a
feeling
of
relief
that
their
meeting
is
,
for
the
moment
,
deferred
.
What
can
he
say
to
her
?
What
can
she
say
to
him
?
He
stands
looking
down
on
the
green
sea
of
richly-clothed
dark
trees
beneath
him
—
ilex
and
eucalyptus
,
and
all
the
unfamiliar
verdure
of
the
soft
South
.
From
the
fiercely-blazing
red
purple
of
a
Bougainvillia
,
so
unlike
the
pale
,
cold
lilac
blossom
,
to
which
in
our
conservatories
we
give
that
name
,
his
eye
travels
over
tree-tops
and
snowy
villas
,
cool
summer
palace
and
domy
mosque
,
to
the
curving
bay
,
round
which
the
Atlas
Mountains
are
gently
laying
their
arms
;
and
Cape
Matifou
,
with
the
haze
of
day
's
young
prime
about
it
,
is
running
out
into
the
Mediterranean
.
He
is
alone
at
first
,
but
presently
other
people
come
forth
;
the
old
valetudinarian
,
for
once
delivered
from
his
fostering
widow
,
sits
down
with
a
pile
of
English
newspapers
to
enjoy
himself
in
the
sun
,
which
does
not
yet
ride
so
high
as
to
be
sun-strokey
.
Jim
's
last
night
's
neighbour
in
the
red
shirt
comes
out
too
,
bonneted
and
prayer-booked
.
She
is
going
to
church
;
so
is
he
:
but
he
does
not
tell
her
so
,
for
fear
she
should
offer
to
accompany
him
.
She
observes
to
him
that
the
climate
is
a
fraud
;
that
this
is
the
first
day
for
three
weeks
in
which
she
is
able
to
go
out
without
a
mackintosh
and
umbrella
.
"
We
are
not
so
green
for
nothing
,
I
can
tell
you
,
"
says
she
,
with
a
laugh
,
and
a
rather
resentful
glance
at
the
splendid
verdure
around
her
,
and
so
leaves
him
.
He
,
too
,
as
I
have
said
,
is
going
to
church
,
and
is
presently
asking
his
way
to
the
English
chapel
.
The
Wilson
family
will
certainly
be
there
,
and
it
has
struck
him
that
the
dreaded
meeting
will
be
robbed
of
half
its
painful
awkwardness
if
it
takes
place
in
public
.
At
a
church-porch
,
crowded
with
issuing
congregation
,
Sybilla
cannot
fall
into
hysterics
—
it
is
true
that
Sybilla
never
attends
divine
service
—
nor
can
Cecilia
weepingly
throw
her
arms
about
his
neck
.
But
whatever
means
he
may
take
to
lessen
the
discomfort
and
smart
of
that
expected
encounter
,
the
thought
of
it
sits
like
lead
upon
his
spirits
,
as
he
walks
quickly
—
it
is
difficult
to
descend
slowly
so
steep
a
hill
—
down
the
precipitous
lane
,
which
is
the
only
mode
of
approach
for
man
or
labouring
beast
to
the
high-perched
hotel
he
has
chosen
.
But
he
is
young
,
and
presently
the
cheerful
,
clean
loveliness
of
the
day
and
the
sight
of
Nature
's
superb
vigour
work
their
natural
effect
upon
him
.
It
must
,
indeed
,
be
an
inveterate
grief
that
refuses
to
be
soothed
by
the
influences
of
this
green
Eden
.
What
a
generosity
of
vegetation
,
as
evidenced
by
the
enormous
garlands
of
great-leaved
ivy
,
waving
from
tree
to
tree
as
for
some
perpetual
fête
!
Along
the
high
hill
bank
that
skirts
this
steep
by-road
,
eucalyptus
rear
their
lofty
heads
and
their
faintly-scented
blossoms
,
aloe
draws
her
potent
sword
,
and
thick-fleshed
prickly
pear
displays
her
uncouth
malignity
.
Beneath
,
what
a
lush
undergrowth
of
riotous
great-foliaged
plants
—
acanthus
,
and
a
hundred
other
green
sisters
,
all
flourishing
and
waxing
,
so
unstinted
,
so
at
large
!
He
has
reached
the
main
road
—
the
shady
road
that
leads
by
a
three-mile
descent
from
Mustapha
Supérieur
to
the
town
.
How
shady
it
is
!
Pepper-trees
hang
their
green
hair
,
so
thick
and
fine
,
over
it
;
and
ilexes
hold
the
thatch
of
their
little
dark
leaves
.
Past
the
Governor
's
summer
palace
,
with
its
snowy
dome
and
Moorish
arcades
gleaming
through
its
iron
gates
.
From
a
villa
garden
a
flowering
shrub
sends
a
mixed
perfume
of
sweet
and
bitter
,
as
of
honey
and
hops
,
from
its
long
yellow
flower-tassels
to
his
pleased
nostrils
.
At
a
sharp
turn
,
where
the
hill
falls
away
more
precipitously
than
before
,
the
bay
,
the
mole
,
the
shipping
,
the
dazzling
little
city
,
burst
upon
him
—
the
little
city
swarming
up
her
hill
,
from
where
the
French
town
bathes
its
feet
in
the
azure
ripples
,
to
where
the
Arab
town
loses
the
peak
of
its
triangle
,
in
the
Casbah
and
the
fort
of
the
now
execrated
Emperor
.
Blinding
white
,
ardent
blue
,
profound
green
—
what
a
pleasant
picture
for
a
summer
Sunday
morning
!
And
how
gay
the
road
is
too
,
as
the
East
and
the
West
step
along
it
together
!
Here
is
a
tram
tearing
down
the
steep
incline
with
five
poor
little
thin
horses
abreast
.
It
is
full
of
English
church-goers
,
and
yet
,
oh
anomaly
!
standing
up
in
the
vulgarest
of
modern
vehicles
,
with
his
slight
dark
hands
grasping
the
tramrail
,
is
a
tall
Arab
,
draped
with
the
grave
grace
of
the
Vatican
Demosthenes
.
But
alas
!
alas
!
even
upon
him
the
West
has
laid
its
claw
,
for
,
as
the
tram
rushes
past
,
Jim
's
shocked
eyes
realize
that
he
,
who
in
other
respects
might
have
fed
the
flocks
of
Laban
in
Padan-aram
,
wears
on
his
feet
a
pair
of
old
elastic-sided
boots
.
Here
come
clattering
a
couple
of
smart
Chasseurs
d'Afrique
,
in
blue
and
red
,
followed
by
a
woman
dressed
as
Rachel
was
at
the
palmy
well
—
so
dressed
,
that
is
to
say
,
as
to
her
white-shrouded
upper
woman
,
for
,
indeed
,
there
is
no
reason
for
supposing
that
Rachel
wore
a
pair
of
Rob
Roy
Tartan
trousers
!
Past
the
Plateau
Saulière
,
where
,
in
the
lichen-roofed
lavoir
Frenchwomen
are
sousing
their
linen
in
water
that
—
oh
,
hideous
thought
!
—
is
changed
but
once
a
week
;
along
an
ugly
suburb
,
and
past
a
little
wood
;
through
the
arch
in
the
fortifications
,
the
Porte
d'Isly
,
till
at
length
the
Episcopal
chapel
—
why
are
the
Protestant
places
of
worship
scattered
over
the
habitable
globe
everywhere
so
frightful
?
—
stands
before
him
.
He
had
thought
himself
in
good
time
,
but
he
must
have
loitered
more
than
he
had
been
aware
of
,
as
the
bell
is
silent
and
the
porch
closed
.
He
enters
as
quietly
as
may
be
,
and
takes
his
place
near
the
door
.
The
building
strikes
damp
and
chilly
,
despite
the
warming
presence
of
the
whole
English
colony
,
emptied
out
of
the
four
hotels
sacred
to
Anglo-Saxons
,
and
out
of
many
an
ilex-shaded
orange-groved
campagne
besides
.
The
building
is
quite
full
,
which
is
,
no
doubt
,
the
reason
why
Jim
fails
to
catch
any
glimpse
of
the
Wilson
family
throughout
the
service
.
He
has
plenty
of
time
to
interrogate
with
his
eye
the
numerous
rows
of
backs
before
him
,
as
the
sermon
is
long
.
Jim
had
known
that
it
would
be
so
from
the
moment
when
the
clergyman
entered
the
pulpit
with
an
open
Bible
—
no
written
sermon
—
in
his
hand
.
The
sound
of
a
brogue
,
piercing
,
even
through
the
giving
out
of
the
text
,
soon
puts
him
in
possession
of
the
further
fact
that
he
is
in
the
clutches
,
and
at
the
mercy
,
of
an
entirely
uneducated
yet
curiously
fluent
Irishman
.
Is
Elizabeth
writhing
under
the
infliction
too
?
Never
,
in
the
Moat
days
,
was
she
very
patient
under
prolonged
pulpit
eloquence
.
He
can
see
her
with
his
memory
's
eye
not
very
covertly
reading
her
hymn-book
—
can
hear
her
foot
tapping
.
Several
people
around
him
now
are
,
not
very
covertly
,
reading
their
hymn-books
,
but
she
is
not
among
them
.
He
has
no
more
sight
of
her
than
he
has
of
Cecilia
;
but
in
neither
case
—
such
are
the
disadvantages
of
his
position
—
does
his
failure
to
see
prove
the
absence
of
the
object
he
seeks
.
He
is
one
of
the
first
persons
to
be
out
of
church
when
at
length
set
free
,
and
stands
just
outside
the
porch
while
the
long
stream
of
worshippers
defiles
before
him
.
It
takes
some
time
to
empty
itself
into
the
sunshine
,
and
nearly
as
long
before
he
catches
sight
of
any
member
of
either
of
the
families
he
is
on
the
look-out
for
.
Of
the
Le
Marchants
,
indeed
,
he
never
catches
sight
,
for
the
excellent
reason
that
they
are
not
to
be
caught
sight
of
,
not
being
there
.
In
the
case
of
the
Wilsons
he
is
more
fortunate
,
though
here
,
too
,
a
sort
of
surprise
is
in
store
for
him
.
He
has
involuntarily
been
scanning
,
in
his
search
for
them
,
only
those
of
the
congregation
who
are
dressed
in
mourning
.
The
picture
that
the
retina
of
his
eye
has
kept
of
Cecilia
is
of
one
tear-swollen
and
crape-swaddled
;
and
though
,
if
he
had
thought
of
it
,
his
reason
would
have
told
him
that
,
after
seven
months
,
she
is
probably
no
longer
sobbing
and
sabled
,
yet
even
then
the
impression
that
he
would
expect
to
receive
from
her
would
be
a
grave
and
a
black
one
.
This
is
why
,
although
he
is
on
the
look-out
for
her
,
she
yet
comes
upon
him
at
last
as
a
surprise
.
"
Jim
!
"
cries
a
voice
,
pitched
a
good
deal
higher
than
is
wont
to
make
itself
heard
within
the
precincts
of
a
church
—
a
female
voice
of
delighted
surprise
and
cheerful
welcome
;
"
father
,
here
is
Jim
!
"
Burgoyne
turns
,
and
sees
a
lady
in
a
very
smart
bonnet
,
full
of
spring
flowers
,
and
with
a
red
en
tout
cas
—
for
they
have
now
issued
into
the
day
's
potent
beam
—
shading
her
rosy
face
;
a
lady
whose
appearance
presents
about
as
wide
a
contrast
to
the
serious
and
inky
figure
he
had
expected
to
see
as
it
is
well
possible
to
imagine
.
Cecilia
,
indeed
,
is
looking
,
what
her
maid
admiringly
pronounced
her
before
sending
her
forth
to
triumph
,
"
very
dressy
.
"
Mr.
Wilson
is
black
,
certainly
—
but
,
then
,
clergymen
always
are
black
—
and
he
still
has
a
band
upon
his
hat
;
but
it
is
a
very
narrow
one
—
sorrow
nearing
its
vanishing-point
.
In
answer
to
his
daughter
's
joyous
apostrophe
,
he
answers
:
"
'
Sh
,
Cecilia
!
do
not
talk
so
loud
.
How
are
you
,
Jim
?
"
And
then
the
meeting
is
over
—
that
first
meeting
which
Jim
had
shrunk
from
with
such
inexpressible
apprehension
—
as
certain
to
be
so
fraught
with
intolerable
emotion
;
with
calls
upon
him
that
he
would
not
be
able
to
answer
;
with
baring
of
incurable
wounds
.
The
contrast
with
the
reality
is
so
startling
that
at
first
it
makes
him
almost
dizzy
.
Can
the
showy
creature
beside
him
,
preening
herself
under
her
gay
sunshade
,
be
the
same
overwhelmed
,
shrunk
,
tear-drenched
Cecilia
whom
at
their
last
meeting
he
had
folded
in
so
solemn
an
embrace
?
Her
cheerful
voice
answers
for
herself
:
"
It
is
so
nice
to
see
you
again
!
When
did
you
come
?
We
did
not
expect
you
quite
so
soon
;
in
your
last
letter
you
were
rather
vague
as
to
dates
;
I
ca
n't
say
that
you
shine
as
a
correspondent
.
You
will
come
back
to
luncheon
with
us
,
of
course
,
will
not
you
?
déjeûner
,
as
they
call
it
here
;
I
always
thought
déjeûner
meant
breakfast
.
You
will
come
,
will
not
you
?
Sybilla
will
be
so
glad
to
see
you
—
glad
,
that
is
to
say
,
in
her
dismal
way
.
"
She
ends
with
a
laugh
,
which
he
listens
to
in
a
silence
that
is
almost
stunned
.
The
sound
of
her
voice
,
though
set
to
so
different
a
tune
from
what
he
had
anticipated
,
has
brought
back
the
past
with
such
astonishing
vividness
to
him
;
her
very
fleer
at
Sybilla
seems
so
much
a
part
of
the
old
life
that
he
half
turns
his
head
,
expecting
once
more
to
see
Amelia
's
deprecating
face
,
to
hear
her
peace-making
voice
put
in
a
plea
,
as
it
has
done
so
many
hundred
times
,
for
the
peevish
malade
imaginaire
.
They
have
been
strolling
towards
the
carriages
waiting
outside
,
and
have
now
reached
one
,
driven
by
an
indigène
,
a
Moor
,
dusky
as
Othello
,
solemn
as
Rhadamanthus
,
and
with
his
serious
charms
set
off
by
a
striped
yellow
and
white
jacket
and
a
red
sash
.
"
Is
not
he
beautiful
?
"
asks
Cecilia
,
with
another
laugh
,
alluding
to
her
coachman
,
as
she
and
Burgoyne
set
off
upon
their
tête-à-tête
drive
,
Mr.
Wilson
seeing
,
apparently
,
no
reason
in
the
fact
of
his
(
Burgoyne
's
)
appearance
on
the
scene
for
departing
from
his
invariable
custom
of
walking
home
from
church
;
"
is
not
he
beautiful
?
When
first
we
came
here
we
were
in
mourning
;
as
if
"
—
catching
herself
up
with
a
stifled
sigh
—
"
there
were
any
need
to
tell
you
that
;
and
father
wanted
to
put
him
into
black
,
but
I
would
not
hear
of
it
:
was
not
I
right
?
He
would
have
been
nothing
in
black
;
it
is
his
red
and
yellow
that
give
him
his
cachet
.
"
Jim
feels
inclined
to
burst
out
laughing
.
There
is
something
so
ludicrous
in
the
disproportion
between
his
fears
and
their
fulfilment
,
in
the
fact
of
the
whole
importance
of
Amelia
's
death
resolving
itself
into
a
sash
or
no
sash
for
an
Arab
coachman
,
that
he
has
some
difficulty
in
answering
in
a
key
of
which
the
irony
shall
not
be
too
patent
:
"
I
think
you
were
perfectly
right
.
"
He
does
not
know
whether
she
perceives
the
dryness
of
his
tone
;
he
thinks
probably
not
,
as
she
goes
on
to
ask
him
a
great
many
questions
as
to
his
journey
,
etc.
,
talking
quickly
and
rather
flightily
,
scarcely
leaving
room
between
her
queries
for
his
monosyllabic
replies
,
and
ending
with
the
ejaculation
:
"
How
nice
it
is
to
see
you
again
!
"
"
Thank
you
.
"
His
acknowledgment
seems
to
himself
so
curt
that
,
after
a
moment
,
he
feels
constrained
to
add
something
to
it
.
That
something
is
the
bald
and
trivial
inquiry
:
"
And
you
—
how
have
you
all
been
getting
on
?
"
Cecilia
shrugs
her
shoulders
.
"
We
are
better
off
than
we
were
;
you
know
that
,
of
course
.
Nobody
ever
thought
that
father
's
brother
would
have
died
before
him
.
Wait
till
you
see
our
villa
—
it
is
one
of
the
show
ones
here
;
and
of
course
it
is
very
pleasant
having
more
money
;
but
one
cannot
help
wishing
that
it
had
come
earlier
.
"
She
sighs
as
she
speaks
;
not
an
ostentatious
sigh
,
but
a
repressed
and
strangled
one
;
and
,
despite
the
flower-garden
in
her
bonnet
,
his
heart
softens
to
her
.
Perhaps
his
look
has
rested
on
that
flower-garden
with
a
more
open
disapprobation
than
he
knows
,
for
she
says
presently
:
"
I
think
that
one
may
be
very
bright-coloured
outside
,
and
very
black
inside
.
Father
and
I
are
sometimes
very
black
inside
.
"
"
Are
you
?
"
"
We
do
very
well
when
we
are
alone
together
,
father
and
I
;
we
like
to
talk
about
her
.
Dear
me
!
what
a
place
Algiers
is
for
dust
!
that
is
why
there
are
so
many
blind
people
here
.
How
it
gets
into
one
's
eyes
!
"
She
puts
her
handkerchief
up
hastily
to
her
face
as
she
speaks
;
but
Jim
is
not
taken
in
by
the
poor
little
ruse
,
and
he
listens
to
her
in
a
silence
that
is
almost
tender
,
as
she
goes
on
:
"
Sybilla
begins
to
cry
if
we
even
distantly
allude
to
her
;
yet
I
know
"
—
with
exasperation
—
"
that
she
talks
of
her
by
the
hour
to
strangers
—
to
her
new
doctor
,
for
instance
;
yes
,
she
has
picked
up
a
new
doctor
here
—
a
dreadful
little
adventurer
!
She
will
probably
talk
of
nothing
else
but
her
to
you
.
"
"
God
forbid
!
"
They
have
by
this
time
left
the
town
behind
them
,
and
have
turned
through
a
stone-pillared
gate
down
an
ilex
and
ficus-sheltered
drive
,
along
which
the
indigène
,
whipping
up
his
horses
to
an
avenue
canter
,
lands
them
at
the
arched
door
of
a
snowy
Moorish
house
,
whose
whitewash
shows
dazzling
through
the
interstices
of
a
Bougainvillia
fire
blazing
all
over
its
front
.
Two
minutes
later
Jim
is
standing
by
Sybilla
's
couch
.
She
is
holding
both
his
hands
in
hers
,
and
there
is
something
in
her
face
which
tells
him
that
she
means
that
he
shall
kiss
her
.
"
When
I
think
—
when
I
think
of
our
last
meeting
!
"
she
says
hysterically
.
"
Yes
,
"
he
says
,
gasping
;
"
yes
,
of
course
.
What
a
beautiful
villa
you
have
here
!
"
The
observation
is
a
true
one
,
though
,
for
the
moment
,
he
has
not
the
least
idea
whether
it
is
beautiful
or
not
,
as
he
turns
his
tormented
eyes
round
upon
the
delicious
little
court
,
with
its
charming
combination
of
slender
twisted
marble
columns
,
of
mellow-tinted
tiles
,
of
low
plashing
fountain
.
Originally
it
has
been
open
,
roofless
to
the
eye
and
the
breath
and
the
rains
of
heaven
;
but
its
Northern
purchaser
has
covered
it
in
with
glass
,
and
set
low
divans
and
luxuriantly
cushioned
bamboo
chairs
about
its
soft-tumbling
water
.
Sybilla
has
let
fall
her
hands
,
and
the
expression
of
the
wish
for
a
sisterly
embrace
has
disappeared
out
of
her
face
.
For
a
few
moments
she
remains
absolutely
silent
.
He
looks
round
anxiously
for
Cecilia
,
but
she
has
gone
to
take
off
her
bonnet
,
and
Mr.
Wilson
has
not
yet
come
in
.
Under
pretence
of
examining
the
tiles
,
he
walks
towards
the
lovely
little
colonnade
of
horseshoe
arches
that
form
the
court
,
and
his
uneasy
look
rests
,
scarcely
seeing
them
,
upon
the
vertical
lines
of
lovely
old
faïence
that
intersect
the
whitewash
with
softest
blues
and
greens
and
yellows
.
When
will
Cecilia
return
?
Behind
him
he
presently
hears
the
invalid
's
voice
,
steadied
and
coldened
.
"
It
is
very
beautiful
;
and
,
of
course
,
it
is
everything
for
weary
eyes
to
have
such
pleasant
objects
to
rest
upon
.
I
believe
"
—
with
a
little
laugh
—
"
that
we
sick
people
really
take
in
most
of
our
nourishment
through
the
eyes
.
Was
not
it
wonderfully
enterprising
of
us
to
come
here
?
I
suppose
your
first
thought
when
you
heard
the
news
was
,
'
How
mad
of
Sybilla
to
attempt
it
!
'
"
It
is
needless
to
say
how
innocent
of
the
mental
ejaculation
attributed
to
him
Jim
has
been
,
and
the
consciousness
of
it
makes
him
inquire
with
guilty
haste
:
"
But
you
were
none
the
worse
?
you
got
over
it
all
right
?
"
"
I
was
really
wonderful
,
"
replies
she
;
"
we
sick
people
"
—
with
a
little
air
of
playfulness
—
"
do
give
you
well
ones
these
surprises
sometimes
;
but
I
must
not
take
the
credit
to
myself
:
it
is
really
every
bit
due
to
Dr.
Crump
,
my
new
doctor
,
who
is
a
perfect
marvel
of
intuition
.
I
always
tell
him
that
he
never
need
ask
;
he
divines
how
one
is
;
he
says
he
is
a
mere
bundle
of
nerves
himself
;
that
is
,
I
suppose
,
why
one
can
talk
to
him
upon
subjects
that
are
sealed
books
with
one
's
nearest
and
dearest
.
"
Her
voice
has
a
suspicious
tremble
in
it
which
frightens
Jim
anew
.
He
looks
again
apprehensively
for
help
towards
the
two
tiers
of
curving
column
and
rounding
arch
,
which
rise
in
cool
grace
above
each
other
,
and
sees
,
with
relief
,
the
figure
of
Cecilia
leaning
over
the
balustrade
that
runs
along
the
upper
tier
,
and
looking
down
upon
him
.
At
the
same
moment
Mr.
Wilson
enters
,
and
shortly
afterwards
they
all
go
to
luncheon
.
It
is
not
a
very
pleasant
repast
,
although
the
cool
dining-room
,
with
its
beautiful
old
pierced
stucco
ceiling
and
its
hanging
brass
lamps
,
contributes
its
part
handsomely
towards
what
should
be
their
enjoyment
.
There
is
no
overt
family
quarrel
,
but
just
enough
of
covert
recrimination
and
sub-acid
sparring
to
make
an
outsider
feel
thoroughly
uncomfortable
,
and
to
prove
how
inharmonious
a
whole
the
soured
little
family
now
forms
.
"
We
quarrel
more
than
we
used
to
do
,
do
not
we
?
"
says
Cecilia
,
when
Jim
,
a
little
later
,
takes
leave
,
and
she
walks
,
under
her
red
sunshade
,
up
the
ilexed
drive
with
him
to
the
pillared
gate
;
"
and
to-day
we
were
better
than
usual
,
because
you
were
by
.
Oh
,
I
wish
you
were
always
by
!
"
He
cannot
echo
the
wish
.
He
had
thought
that
he
had
already
held
his
dead
Amelia
at
her
true
value
;
but
never
,
until
to-day
,
has
he
realized
through
what
a
long
purgatory
of
obscure
heroisms
she
had
passed
to
her
reward
.
"
I
do
hope
you
will
not
drop
us
altogether
.
Of
course
,
now
that
the
link
that
bound
us
to
you
is
broken
"
—
her
voice
quivers
,
but
he
feels
neither
the
fear
nor
the
rage
that
a
like
phenomenon
in
Sybilla
has
produced
in
him
—
"
there
is
nothing
to
hold
you
any
longer
;
but
I
do
trust
you
will
not
quite
throw
us
over
.
"
"
My
dear
old
girl
,
why
should
I
?
I
hope
that
you
and
I
shall
always
be
the
best
of
friends
,
and
that
before
long
I
shall
see
you
settled
in
a
home
of
your
own
.
"
"
You
mean
that
I
shall
marry
?
Well
,
to
be
sure
"
—
with
a
recurrence
to
that
business-like
tone
which
had
always
amused
him
formerly
in
her
discussion
of
her
affairs
of
the
heart
—
"
I
ought
to
have
a
better
chance
now
than
ever
,
as
I
shall
have
a
larger
fortune
;
but
"
—
with
a
lapse
into
depression
—
"
this
is
not
a
good
place
for
men
—
I
mean
Englishmen
.
There
are
troops
of
delightful-looking
Frenchmen
,
Chasseurs
d'Afrique
,
and
Zouaves
;
but
,
then
,
we
do
not
know
any
of
them
—
not
one
.
Well
,
perhaps
"
—
philosophically
—
"
it
is
for
the
best
;
one
always
hears
that
Frenchmen
make
very
bad
husbands
.
"
CHAPTER
III
.
Notre
Dame
d'Afrique
—
Lady
of
Africa
—
is
an
ugly
lady
,
homely
and
black
;
and
the
church
that
is
dedicated
to
her
is
ugly
too
—
new
and
mock-Moorish
;
but
,
like
many
another
ugly
lady
,
being
very
nobly
placed
,
she
has
a
great
and
solemn
air
.
It
is
Our
Lady
of
Africa
who
first
gives
us
our
greeting
as
we
steam
in
from
seawards
;
it
is
to
Our
Lady
of
Africa
that
the
fisher-people
climb
to
vespers
,
and
to
the
touching
office
that
follows
,
when
priests
and
acolytes
pass
out
of
the
church
to
the
little
plateau
outside
,
where
,
sheer
against
the
sky
,
stands
a
small
Latin
cross
,
with
a
plain
and
,
as
it
seems
,
coffin-shaped
stone
beneath
it
,
on
which
one
reads
the
inscription
:
"
À
la
mémoire
de
tous
ceux
,
qui
ont
péri
dans
la
mer
,
et
ont
été
ensevelis
dans
ses
flots
.
"
"
All
those
who
have
perished
in
the
sea
,
and
been
buried
in
her
waves
.
"
What
a
gigantic
company
to
be
covered
with
one
little
epitaph
!
Notre
Dame
d'Afrique
stands
grandly
on
the
cliff-tops
,
overlooking
the
sea
,
whose
cruel
deeds
she
is
so
agonizedly
prayed
to
avert
,
whose
cruelty
she
is
sometimes
powerful
to
assuage
,
witness
the
frequent
votive
tablets
with
which
the
church
walls
are
covered
:
"
Merci
,
oh
ma
mère
.
"
"
J'ai
prie
,
et
j'ai
été
exaucé
.
"
"
Reconnaissance
à
Marie
.
"
"
Reconnaissance
à
Notre
Dame
d'Afrique
.
"
She
does
not
look
very
lovable
,
this
coal-black
Marie
,
who
stands
in
her
stiff
brocade
,
with
her
ebon
hands
stretched
straight
out
above
the
high-altar
;
but
how
tenderly
these
poor
fisherwives
must
have
felt
towards
her
when
she
brought
them
back
their
Pierre
or
their
Jean
,
from
the
truculent
deeps
of
the
ocean
!
Burgoyne
has
been
told
,
both
by
his
guide-book
and
by
his
table-d'hôte
neighbour
,
that
he
ought
to
see
Notre
Dame
d'Afrique
;
nor
is
he
loth
to
pay
further
obeisance
to
that
high
lady
who
already
yesterday
beckoned
to
him
across
the
blue
floor
of
her
waters
.
He
does
not
tell
Cecilia
of
his
intention
,
as
he
knows
that
she
would
offer
to
accompany
him
;
but
on
leaving
her
he
takes
his
way
through
the
gay
French
town
,
along
its
Arab-named
streets
,
Bab-a-Zoun
and
Bab-el-Oued
,
towards
the
village
of
St.
Eugène
,
and
breasts
the
winding
road
that
,
with
many
an
elbow
and
bend
,
heading
a
deep
gorge
that
runs
up
from
the
sea
to
the
church-foot
,
leads
him
within
her
portals
.
The
congregation
is
sparse
—
a
few
peasants
,
a
blue
and
red
Zouave
,
and
several
inevitable
English
.
Now
and
again
a
woman
,
clad
in
humble
black
that
tells
of
prayers
in
vain
,
goes
up
with
her
thin
candle
,
and
,
lighting
it
,
sticks
it
in
its
sconce
among
the
others
that
burn
before
the
altar
.
For
awhile
Burgoyne
finds
it
pleasant
after
his
climb
to
sit
and
watch
her
,
and
speculate
pityingly
with
what
hope
of
still
possible
good
to
herself
she
is
setting
her
slender
taper
alight
—
now
that
her
treasure
has
all
too
obviously
gone
down
beneath
the
waves
;
to
sit
and
speculate
,
and
smell
the
heady
incense
,
and
listen
to
the
murmur
of
chanted
supplication
;
but
presently
,
growing
weary
of
the
uncomprehended
service
,
he
slips
outside
to
the
little
plateau
,
with
its
view
straight
out
—
no
importunate
land-object
intervening
—
towards
the
sea
,
across
which
a
little
steamer
is
cutting
her
way
;
and
on
the
horizon
two
tiny
shining
sails
are
lying
.
Here
,
on
this
bold
headland
,
it
seems
as
if
one
were
one
's
self
in
mid-ocean
;
and
one
has
to
lean
far
over
the
low
wall
in
order
to
realize
that
there
is
some
solid
earth
between
us
and
it
;
that
two
full
cities
of
the
dead
—
a
Jewish
and
a
Christian
—
lie
below
.
From
the
land-cemeteries
to
the
vast
sea-cemetery
—
for
read
by
the
light
of
that
plain
inscription
upon
which
his
eyes
are
resting
,
what
is
even
the
azure
Mediterranean
but
a
grave
?
For
the
matter
of
that
,
what
is
all
life
but
a
grave
?
"
First
our
pleasures
die
,
and
then
Our
hopes
,
and
then
our
fears
,
and
when
These
are
dead
,
the
debt
is
due
:
Dust
claims
dust
,
and
we
die
too
.
"
He
turns
away
,
and
,
muttering
these
words
half
absently
between
his
lips
,
begins
to
make
the
circuit
of
the
church
;
and
in
doing
so
,
comes
suddenly
upon
three
persons
who
are
apparently
similarly
employed
.
The
party
consists
of
a
man
and
two
ladies
.
Being
a
little
ahead
of
him
,
they
are
,
for
the
first
moment
or
two
,
not
aware
of
his
presence
,
an
ignorance
by
which
he
,
rather
to
his
own
discomfiture
,
profits
to
overhear
a
scrap
of
their
conversation
certainly
not
intended
for
his
ears
.
"
I
suppose
that
you
were
wool-gathering
,
as
usual
?
"
Mr.
Le
Marchant
is
saying
,
with
an
accent
of
cold
severity
,
to
his
daughter
;
"
but
I
should
have
thought
that
even
you
might
have
remembered
to
bring
a
wrap
of
some
kind
for
your
mother
!
"
Jim
starts
,
partly
at
having
happened
so
unexpectedly
upon
the
people
before
him
,
partly
in
shocked
astonishment
at
the
harshness
both
of
voice
and
words
.
In
the
old
days
Elizabeth
had
been
the
apple
of
her
father
's
eye
,
to
oppose
whose
lightest
fancy
was
a
capital
offence
,
for
whom
no
words
could
be
too
sugared
,
no
looks
too
doting
.
Yet
now
she
answers
,
with
the
sweetest
good-humour
,
and
without
the
slightest
sign
of
surprise
or
irritation
,
or
any
indication
that
the
occurrence
is
not
a
habitual
one
:
"
I
cannot
think
how
I
could
have
been
so
stupid
;
it
was
inexcusable
of
me
.
"
"
I
quite
agree
with
you
,
"
replies
the
father
,
entirely
unmollified
;
"
I
am
sure
you
have
been
told
often
enough
how
liable
to
chills
insufficient
clothing
makes
people
in
this
beastly
climate
at
sundown
.
"
"
But
it
is
not
near
sundown
,
"
breaks
in
Mrs.
Le
Marchant
,
throwing
herself
anxiously
,
and
with
a
dexterity
which
shows
how
frequently
she
is
called
upon
to
do
so
,
between
the
two
others
;
"
look
what
a
great
piece
of
blue
sky
the
sun
has
yet
to
travel
.
"
"
You
shall
have
my
jacket
,
"
cries
Elizabeth
impetuously
,
but
still
with
the
same
perfect
sweetness
;
"
it
will
be
absurdly
short
for
you
,
but
,
at
least
,
it
will
keep
you
warm
.
"
So
saying
,
she
,
with
the
speed
of
lightning
,
whips
off
the
garment
alluded
to
,
and
proceeds
to
guide
her
mother
's
arms
into
its
inconveniently
tight
sleeves
,
laughing
the
while
with
her
odd
childish
light-heartedness
,
and
crying
,
"
You
dear
thing
,
you
do
look
too
ridiculous
!
"
The
mother
laughs
too
,
and
aids
her
daughter
's
efforts
;
nor
does
it
seem
to
occur
to
any
of
the
three
that
the
fatal
Southern
chill
may
possibly
strike
the
delicate
little
frame
of
Elizabeth
,
now
exposed
,
so
lightly
clad
in
her
tweed
gown
,
to
its
insidious
influence
.
"
I
wish
you
had
a
looking-glass
to
see
yourself
in
!
"
cries
she
,
rippling
into
fresh
mirth
;
"
does
not
she
look
funny
,
father
!
"
appealing
to
him
with
as
little
resentment
for
his
past
surliness
as
would
be
shown
by
a
good
dog
(
I
cannot
put
it
more
strongly
)
,
and
yet
,
as
it
seems
to
Jim
,
with
a
certain
nervous
deprecation
.
The
next
moment
one
of
them
—
he
does
not
know
which
—
has
caught
sight
of
himself
,
and
the
moment
after
he
is
shaking
hands
with
all
three
.
It
is
clear
that
the
fact
of
his
presence
in
Algiers
has
been
notified
to
Mr.
Le
Marchant
,
for
there
is
no
surprise
in
his
coldly
civil
greeting
.
He
makes
it
as
short
as
possible
,
and
almost
at
once
turns
to
continue
his
circuit
of
the
church
,
his
wife
at
his
side
,
and
his
daughter
meekly
following
.
Doubtless
they
do
not
wish
for
his
(
Jim
's
)
company
;
but
yet
,
as
he
was
originally
,
and
without
any
reference
to
them
,
going
in
their
direction
,
it
would
seem
natural
that
he
should
walk
along
with
them
.
He
is
hesitating
as
to
whether
or
no
to
adopt
this
course
,
when
he
is
decided
by
a
very
slight
movement
of
Elizabeth
's
head
.
She
does
not
actually
look
over
her
shoulder
at
him
,
and
yet
it
seems
to
him
as
if
,
were
her
gesture
completed
,
it
would
amount
to
that
;
but
it
is
arrested
by
some
impulse
before
it
is
more
than
sketched
.
Such
as
it
is
,
it
suffices
to
take
him
to
her
side
;
and
it
seems
to
him
that
there
is
a
sort
of
satisfaction
mingled
with
the
undoubted
apprehension
in
her
face
,
as
she
realizes
that
it
is
so
.
Her
eyes
,
as
she
turns
them
upon
him
,
have
a
hungry
question
in
them
which
her
lips
seem
afraid
to
put
.
Apparently
she
cannot
get
nearer
to
it
than
this
—
very
tremblingly
and
hurriedly
uttered
,
with
a
timid
glance
at
her
father
's
back
,
as
if
she
were
delivering
herself
of
some
compromising
secret
instead
of
the
mere
platitude
which
she
so
indistinctly
vents
:
"
A
—
a
—
great
many
things
have
happened
since
—
since
we
last
met
!
"
Her
eye
travels
for
a
moment
to
his
hat
,
from
which
,
unlike
Cecilia
's
rainbow
raiment
,
the
crape
band
has
not
yet
been
removed
;
and
he
understands
that
she
is
comprehending
his
troubles
as
well
as
her
own
in
the
phrase
.
"
A
great
many
!
"
he
answers
baldly
.
He
has
not
the
cruelty
to
wish
to
keep
her
on
tenterhooks
,
and
he
knows
perfectly
what
is
the
question
that
is
written
in
the
wistful
blue
of
her
look
,
and
whom
it
concerns
;
but
it
would
be
impertinence
in
him
to
take
for
granted
that
knowledge
,
and
answer
that
curiosity
which
,
however
intense
and
apparent
,
has
yet
not
become
the
current
coin
of
speech
.
Probably
she
sees
that
he
is
unable
or
unwilling
to
help
her
,
for
she
makes
another
tremendous
effort
.
"
I
hope
that
—
that
—
all
your
friends
are
well
.
"
"
All
my
friends
!
"
repeats
he
,
half
sadly
;
"
they
are
not
such
a
numerous
band
;
I
have
not
many
friends
left
still
alive
.
"
His
thoughts
have
reverted
to
his
own
loss
,
for
,
at
the
moment
,
Amelia
is
very
present
to
him
;
but
the
words
are
