She did not answer, but settled herself more comfortably in the carriage and relapsed into mournful silence. I, having said my say, lit a cigarette. Save for the clanging past of an upward or downward tram, the creeping drive up the hill through the long winding street was very quiet; and as we mounted higher and left the shops behind, the only sounds that broke the afternoon stillness were the driver's raucous admonition to his horses and the wind in the trees by the wayside. At different points the turns of the road brought to view the panorama of the town below and the calm sweep of the bay. “Exquisite, isn't it?” I said at last, with an indicative wave of the hand. “What's the good of anything being exquisite when you feel mouldy?” “It may help to charm away the mouldiness. Beauty is eternal and mouldiness only temporal. The sun will go on shining and the sea will go on changing colour long after our pains and joys have vanished from the world. Nature is pitilessly indifferent to human emotion.” “If so,” she said, her intuition finding the weakness of my slipshod argument, “how can it touch human mouldiness?” “I don't know,” said I. “The poets will tell you. All you have to do is to lie on the breast of the Great Mother and your heartache will go from you. I've never tried it myself, as I've never been afflicted with heartache.” “Is that true?” she asked, womanlike catching at the personal. I smiled and nodded. “I'm glad on your account,” she said sincerely. “It's the very devil of an ache. I've always had it.” “Poor Lola,” said I, prompted by my acquired instinct of eumoiriety. “I wish I could cure you.” “You?” She gave a short little laugh and then turned her head away. “I had a very comfortable crossing,” she remarked a moment later. I gave her into the keeping of the manager of the hotel and did not see her again until she came down somewhat late for dinner. I met her in the vestibule. She wore a closely fitting brown dress, which in colour matched the bronze of her hair and in shape showed off her lithe and generous figure. I thought it my duty to cheer her by a well-deserved compliment. “Are you aware,” I said, with a low bow, “that you're a remarkably handsome woman?” A perfectly unnecessary light came into her eyes and a superfluous flush to her cheeks. “If I'm at least that to you, I'm happy,” she said. “You're that to the dullest vision. Follow the _maitre d'hotel_,” said I, as we entered the _salle a manger_, “and I'll walk behind in reflected glory.”