the woods is at least not haunted by the dead people you loved. Sometimes, when I go into my mother's room and see everything as she left it—the mirror in which I have often seen her braid her hair—she had scarcely a gray lock in it when she died—I feel—I cannot describe to you what I feel."
"You ought to marry," remarked Cave, in a cold, quiet voice.
"Not I," answered Pembroke, carelessly, glad to escape from the train he had himself started. "I suppose a man ought to marry some time or other—but forty is early enough. I wouldn't mind waiting until I were fifty. At sixty a man is apt to make an infernal fool of himself."
"How about Eliza Peyton—or Madame Koller—whom you followed here?"
Pembroke had lighted a cigar since they began talking, and had disposed of himself comfortably on the pine needles by the side of his friend. The silence was the unbroken silence of the autumn woods. There was not the faintest whisper of wind, but over their heads the solemn trees leaned together and rustled softly. A long pause came after Cave's question. Into Pembroke's sunburnt face a dark flush slowly mounted. It is not often that a man of his type, with his iron jaw and strong features, blushes—but this was a blush of consciousness, though not of shame.
"I did not follow her here," he said. "But who believes me? I think the woman herself fancies
