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him for the change; it was a shock, it revealed to her keen perception the truth that they had been proceeding on a falsely romantic basis. They had been living for three weeks a sort of idyl—practically alone together, strangers to one another, wandering in the midst of this wild, fresh, seductive nature, in a harmony of disagreement which showed the strength of mutual attraction. Conventions had been thrown overboard; Teresa had ignored the surprise and mute protest of her relatives. Here was a companionship which soothed and amused and pleased her, which satisfied her constant need of attention and interest, and in her present mood she had seized upon it as a necessity. From everything else in her life, at present, she suffered, in one way or another; she was bruised, aching, in mind and nerves. She consciously lived, really, only for her moments of lyric exaltation; the essence of life, all that w r as worth living for, might from her actions have been summed up in those moments, when a passionate fervour, a passionate delight in feeling, in the grace, beauty, and joy of it, swept her up, rapt her away. All pleasure had to her an element of intoxication, some faint reflection of the ecstasy of those supreme moments. Crayven had been a pleasure to her, apparently a calm, quiet, prosaic pleasure. They had played at being old, tried, staid friends. His inexpressive homage had warmed her in her mel-