"That is a wood-rat's nest." "And you are not afraid of him? Extraordinary woman!" "He is much more afraid of me. I am very afraid of house-rats." "And you sit here often? You are not afraid of snakes?" "There are none in these woods. They always retreat before people--civilisation. Everyone drives through here, but scarcely anyone goes through the back woods; the roads are so bad--" "Hush!" The sound of wheels, faint for a moment, grew more distinct; with it mingled the sound of voices. A heavy char-a-banc rolled by, and the words of Tiny and Ila came distinctly to the two in hiding. "They will have a long and fruitless search," said Trennahan, contentedly. "We are going to stay here and become acquainted." And they did not move for two hours. For a time Trennahan made her talk, learning almost all there was to know. He even drew forth the tattered shreds of the caballero, who had been little more than a matter of garments, and a confession of her long and passionate desire to be beautiful. The story ended with the lonely and terrible surrender of her religion. He was profoundly interested. Once or twice he was appalled. Did he take this woman, he must assume responsibility for every part of her. She was so wholly without egoism that she would give herself up without reservation and expect him to guide her. That would be all very well with the ordinary woman; but with a nature of high ideals, and possibly of transcendent passions,--was he equal to the task? But in his present mood the prospect fascinated him. One of her slim hands, dark but pretty, lay near his own. He wanted to take it in his, but did not: he wished to keep her unself-conscious as long as possible. He tried to talk to her about himself, but found it hard to avoid the claptrap with which a man of the world attempts to awaken interest in woman. He had always done it artistically: the weariness, the satiety, the mental grasp of nothingness,--these had been ever revealed in flashing glimpses, in unwilling allusiveness; the hope that he had finally stumbled upon the one woman sketched with a brush dipped in mist. But feeling himself sincere for the first time in incalculable years, he dismissed the tempered weapons of his victories with contempt, and, not knowing what others to substitute, talked of his boyhood and college days. As a result, he felt younger than ever, and closer to the girl who was part of the mystery that had taken him to her heart. XXVIII