But Bernardine did not hear him; she was thinking of her friend. She was thinking, as we all think, that those to whom in our suffering we turn for sympathy, become hallowed beings. Saints they may not be; but for want of a better name, saints they are to us, gracious and lovely presences. The great time Eternity, the great space Death, could not rob them of their saintship; for they were canonized by our bitterest tears. She was roused from her reverie by the Disagreeable Man, who got up, and pushed his chair noisily under the table. "Will you come and help me to develop some photographs?" he asked cheerily. "You do not need to have a straight eye for that!" Then as they went along together, he said: "When we come to think about it seriously, it is rather absurd for us to expect to have uninterrupted stretches of happiness. Happiness falls to our share in separate detached bits; and those of us who are wise, content ourselves with these broken fragments." "But who is wise?" Bernardine asked. "Why, we all expect to be happy. No one told us that we were to be happy. Still, though no one told us, it is the true instinct of human nature." "It would be interesting to know at what particular period of evolution into our present glorious types we felt that instinct for the first time," he said. "The sunshine must have had something to do with it. You see how a dog throws itself down in the sunshine; the most wretched cur heaves a sigh of content then; the sulkiest cat begins to purr." They were standing outside the room set apart for the photograph-maniacs of the Kurhaus. "I cannot go into that horrid little hole," Bernardine said. "And besides, I have promised to play chess with the Swedish professor. And after that I am going to photograph Marie. I promised Wärli I would." The Disagreeable Man smiled grimly. "I hope he will be able to recognize her!" he said. Then, feeling that he was on dangerous ground, he added quickly: "If you want any more plates, I can oblige you." On her way to her room she stopped to talk to pretty Fräulein Müller, who was in high spirits, having had an excellent report from the Doctor. Fräulein Müller always insisted on talking English with Bernardine; and as her knowledge of it was limited, a certain amount of imagination was necessary to enable her to be understood. "Ah, Miss Holme," she said, "I have deceived an exquisite report from the Doctor." "You are looking ever so well," Bernardine said. "And the love-making with the Spanish gentleman goes on well, too?" "Ach!" was the merry answer. "That is your inventory! I am quite indolent to him!" At that moment the Spanish gentleman came out of the Kurhaus flower- shop, with a beautiful bouquet of flowers.