of Mauger's tanned face and yellow beard. For, in spite of a sedentary profession, his preferences lie with an out-of-door life, and he takes an afternoon off whenever practicable, as he had done that day, to follow his favourite pursuit over the golf-links at Les Landes.
While he had been deep in the mysteries of teeing and putting, with no subtler problem to be solved than the judicious selection of mashie and cleek, I had explored some of the curious cromlechs or pouquelayes scattered over this part of the island, and my thoughts and speech harked back irresistibly to the strange old religions and usages of the past.
"Science is all very well in its own way," said I; "and of course it's an inestimable advantage to inhabit this so-called nineteenth century; but the mediaeval want of science was far more picturesque. The once universal belief in charms and portents, in wandering saints, and fighting fairies, must have lent an interest to life which these prosaic days sadly lack. Madelon then would steal from her bed on moonlight nights in May, and slip across the dewy grass with naked feet, to seek the reflection of her future husband's face in the first running stream she passed; now, Miss Mary Jones puts on her bonnet and steps round the corner, on no more romantic errand than the investment of her month's wages in the savings bank at two and a half per cent."
Mauger laughed. "I wish she did anything half so prudent! That has not been my experience of the Mary Joneses."
"Well, anyhow," I insisted, "the Board school has rationalised them. It has pulled up the innate poetry of their nature to replace it by decimal fractions."
To which Mauger answered "Rot!" and offered me his cigarette-case. After the first few silent whiffs, he went on as follows: "The innate poetry of Woman! Confess now, there isno