very unexpectedly" target="_blank" title="ad.意外地；突然地">unexpectedly he saw her coming down the terrace slow and
eager, as if she were restraining herself, and with a rhythmic

upward undulation of her whole figure. The light from an open
window fell across her path, and suddenly all that mass of arranged

hair appeared incandescent, chiselled and fluid, with the daring
suggestion of a helmet of burnished copper and the flowing lines of

molten metal. It kindled in him an astonished admiration. But he
said nothing of it to his friend the Editor. Neither did he tell

him that her approach woke up in his brain the image of love's
infinite grace and the sense of the inexhaustible joy that lives in

beauty. No! What he imparted to the Editor were no emotions, but
mere facts conveyed in a deliberate voice and in uninspired words.

"That young lady came and sat down by me. She said: 'Are you
French, Mr. Renouard?'"

He had breathed a whiff of perfume of which he said nothing either
- of some perfume he did not know. Her voice was low and distinct.

Her shoulders and her bare arms gleamed with an extraordinary
splendour, and when she advanced her head into the light he saw the

admirable contour of the face, the straight fine nose with delicate
nostrils, the exquisitecrimson brushstroke of the lips on this

oval without colour. The expression of the eyes was lost in a
shadowy mysterious play of jet and silver, stirring under the red

coppery gold of the hair as though she had been a being made of
ivory and precious metals changed into living tissue.

". . . I told her my people were living in Canada, but that I was
brought up in England before coming out here. I can't imagine what

interest she could have in my history."
"And you complain of her interest?"

The accent of the all-knowing journalist seemed to jar on the
Planter of Malata.

"No!" he said, in a deadened voice that was almost sullen. But
after a short silence he went on. "Very extraordinary. I told her

I came out to wander at large in the world when I was nineteen,
almost directly after I left school. It seems that her late

brother was in the same school a couple of years before me. She
wanted me to tell her what I did at first when I came out here;

what other men found to do when they came out - where they went,
what was likely to happen to them - as if I could guess and

foretell from my experience the fates of men who come out here with
a hundred different projects, for hundreds of different reasons -

for no reason but restlessness - who come, and go, and disappear!
Preposterous. She seemed to want to hear their histories. I told

her that most of them were not worth telling."
The distinguished journalist leaning on his elbow, his head resting

against the knuckles of his left hand, listened with great
attention, but gave no sign of that surprise which Renouard,

pausing, seemed to expect.
"You know something," the latter said brusquely. The all-knowing

man moved his head slightly and said, "Yes. But go on."
"It's just this. There is no more to it. I found myself talking

to her of my adventures, of my early days. It couldn't possibly
have interested her. Really," he cried, "this is most

extraordinary. Those people have something on their minds. We sat
in the light of the window, and her father prowled about the

terrace, with his hands behind his back and his head drooping. The
white-haired lady came to the dining-room window twice - to look at

us I am certain. The other guests began to go away - and still we
sat there. Apparently these people are staying with the Dunsters.

It was old Mrs. Dunster who put an end to the thing. The father
and the aunt circled about as if they were afraid of interfering

with the girl. Then she got up all at once, gave me her hand, and
said she hoped she would see me again."

While he was speaking Renouard saw again the sway of her figure in
a movement of grace and strength - felt the pressure of her hand -

heard the last accents of the deep murmur that came from her throat
so white in the light of the window, and remembered the black rays

of her steady eyes passing off his face when she turned away. He
remembered all this visually, and it was not exactly pleasurable.

It was rather startling like the discovery of a new faculty in
himself. There are faculties one would rather do without - such,

for instance, as seeing through a stone wall or remembering a
person with this uncanny vividness. And what about those two

people belonging to her with their air of expectant solicitude!
Really, those figures from home got in front of one. In fact,

their persistence in getting between him and the solid forms of the
everyday material world had driven Renouard to call on his friend

at the office. He hoped that a little common, gossipy information
would lay the ghost of that unexpected dinner-party. Of course the

proper person to go to would have been young Dunster, but, he
couldn't stand Willie Dunster - not at any price.

In the pause the Editor had changed his attitude, faced his desk,
and smiled a faint knowing smile.

"Striking girl - eh?" he said.
The incongruity of the word was enough to make one jump out of the

chair. Striking! That girl striking! Stri . . .! But Renouard
restrained his feelings. His friend was not a person to give

oneself away to. And, after all, this sort of speech was what he
had come there to hear. As, however, he had made a movement he re-

settled himself comfortably and said, with very creditable
indifference, that yes - she was, rather. Especially amongst a lot

of over-dressed frumps. There wasn't one woman under forty there.
"Is that the way to speak of the cream of our society; the 'top of

the basket,' as the French say," the Editor remonstrated with mock
indignation. "You aren't moderate in your expressions - you know."

"I express myself very little," interjected Renouard seriously.
"I will tell you what you are. You are a fellow that doesn't count

the cost. Of course you are safe with me, but will you never
learn. . . ."

"What struck me most," interrupted the other, "is that she should
pick me out for such a long conversation."

"That's perhaps because you were the most remarkable of the men
there."

Renouard shook his head.
"This shot doesn't seem to me to hit the mark," he said calmly.

"Try again."
"Don't you believe me? Oh, you modest creature. Well, let me

assure you that under ordinary circumstances it would have been a
good shot. You are sufficientlyremarkable. But you seem a pretty

acute customer too. The circumstances are extraordinary. By Jove
they are!"

He mused. After a time the Planter of Malata dropped a negligent -
"And you know them."

"And I know them," assented the all-knowing Editor, soberly, as
though the occasion were too special for a display of professional

vanity; a vanity so well known to Renouard that its absence
augmented his wonder and almost made him uneasy as if portending

bad news of some sort.
"You have met those people?" he asked.

"No. I was to have met them last night, but I had to send an
apology to Willie in the morning. It was then that he had the

bright idea to invite you to fill the place, from a muddled notion
that you could be of use. Willie is stupid sometimes. For it is

clear that you are the last man able to help."
"How on earth do I come to be mixed up in this - whatever it is?"

Renouard's voice was slightly altered by nervousirritation. "I
only arrived here yesterday morning."

CHAPTER II
His friend the Editor turned to him squarely. "Willie took me into