Sir Walter Gore had parted with Barnard in the hall of the hotel; and now he crossed the terrace quickly, conscious of the fast falling twilight. He was close to the flight of stone steps that led to the water, before the flutter of Clodagh's light dress caught his preoccupied attention. Seeing her, he paused and raised his hat. "You look very mysterious, Mrs. Milbanke," he said. "Has your husband gone indoors?" Clodagh felt herself colour. Unreasonably, and seemingly inexplicably, the mention of Milbanke's name jarred upon her. "My husband has gone to see an archway in one of the churches," she said with a tinge of sharpness. Caught by the inflexion of her voice, Gore looked at her more closely through the gathering dusk. "And you do not share his taste for the antique?" She turned towards him, her eyes alight with a sharp, cold brightness. "I hate the antique!" she said with sudden vehemence. Almost against his will, Gore looked at her again. "And yet you come from Ireland? Isn't everything there very old?" For an instant she looked away across the darkening waters; then her glance flashed back to his. "Yes, old," she said passionately; "but so naturally old, that its age is not thrust upon you. Where I come from, there is a ruined chapel on the edge of a cliff that dates from the fourth century. And at the present day the peasants pray there, just as their ancestors prayed centuries and centuries ago. They don't stare at it, and read about it, and write about it, like the antiquarians do. They pray there. The chapel isn't a curiosity to them; it's a part of their lives." Gore was silent. An unconquerable surprise--a reluctant fascination--held him chained, forgetful of the gathering darkness and of the gondola that awaited him at the foot of the steps. As he stood hesitating, Clodagh spoke again. "Don't you believe that things should be lived--not merely looked at?" she asked, her voice low and tense. Almost unconsciously the desire to interest this man, to win his attention, to compel him to share her opinions, had sprung into her mind. Gore answered her with directness. "No," he said. "All things cannot be lived." His voice was quiet and controlled; the pose of his body, the look in his eyes, all suggested a tempered strength--a curbed vitality. The desire to dominate him rose higher, overshadowing every other sensation in Clodagh's brain. She stepped nearer to him, her hand resting on the stone balustrade, her body bending forward. "Don't you think that when life is so very short, we are justified in taking all we can--when we can?" Her warm lips were parted, her eyes shone with an added light. She was walking on the edge of an abyss with the ardour of one whose gaze is fixed upon the sun. But Gore--seeing only the abyss--girded on his armour. "No," he said slowly and deliberately. "No; that has never been my standpoint." "Then you refuse the good things of life when they come your way?"