“_I'm sailing Saturday. Do you feel that you could see me for a few moments?_” The reply, within the hour, bade him come. He found her in Western dress---a tailored suit, very simple; her glistening black hair parted smoothly--as he would always most vividly remember it--gently sad in manner, yet able to smile. She would be like that, come to think of it; not crushed by the tragedy, not sunken in the grief that, among Westerners, is so often a sort of histrionic egotism.... They sat in a tiled courtyard among dahlias. More than ever like a proud young Briton was Rocky. “It is good of you to see me.” Thus he began.... “I couldn't go without a word.” She murmured then: “Of course not.” “I want you to know, too, that I am coming to see”--he had to pause; in this new phase of sober young manhood he had not yet achieved steady self-control. She broke the silence with a question about the revolution. It is to his credit that he talked, stumbling only at first, clearly. And as the strain of the meeting gradually relaxed, he became aware of her sobered but still intense absorption in the struggle; aware, too, increasingly, of her strong gift of what is called personality. Her mind was quick, bright, eager--better, it seemed (he had to fight bitterness here) than his own. And she was impersonal to a degree that he couldn't yet attain--couldn't, in fact, quite understand. He had to speak slowly and carefully; feeling his way with a dogged determination among uprushing emotions, moved as never before by the charm of appearance and manner and speech of which she was so prettily unconscious.... He had come--perhaps with more than a touch in him of (again) that Western histrionism, the intense overstressing of the individual and his feelings--as a man who was effacing himself that the woman he loved might be happy with another man. Confused with this wholly unconscious call upon the sympathies, undoubtedly, was an unphrased incredulity that she--so strongly a person, fine and courageous and outstanding as he knew her to be--could accept this being almost casually left as part of a legacy to that other man. It was incredible. Unless she loved the other man.... So he came around again to the personal; unaware, of course, that he was feeling inevitably with his strongly individualistic race. Even when she dwelt on race, a little later in their talk, he found no light. He couldn't have; for the American seldom can see what lies outside himself.