ways of peace. The book was a French treatise on the Marxian
philosophies--dull reading for a summer's day when the water lapped
merrily at one's feet, the breeze sighed softly, laden with the odors
of the mysterious deeps, and sea and sky beckoned him invitingly into
the realms of adventure and delight, so dull that, the fish biting not,
Markham dozed, and at last rolled over in the sunlight and slept.

How long he lay there he did not know. He was awakened by the exhaust
of a launch close at hand and sat up so quickly that "Karl Marx,"
rudely jostled by his elbow, went sliding over the edge of the rock
and into the sea. But there was no time at present to bewail this
calamity for the man in the launch had brought her inshore and hailed
him politely.

"Mr. Markham?" he questioned.

Markham nodded. "That's my name," he said.

"A note for you." The launch moved slowly in toward the landing and
Markham met his visitor, already aware that there was to be a further
intrusion on his solitude. He broke the seal of the note and read.
It was from Hermia Challoner.

Dear Mr. Markham:

Life, as you see, has yielded me one more sensation without penalty. I
am safe at home again, my philosophy triumphant over yours. There
isn't a great deal of difference between them after all. You, too,
take from life, Mr. Markham--you take what you need just as I do; but
just because your needs differ from mine, manlike, you assume that I