and when I bent before her she shook her head.

"It is not real," she said, with a look over water and forest. "It is
all a dream."

I stopped to send a group of curious squaws upon their way. It was
indeed like a pictured spectacle,--the green wood, the Indian village,
and the headland-guarded bay opening northward over rolling water.

"Yes, it is a dream," I agreed. "You will soon wake. Where would you
like the wakening to take place, mademoiselle? At Meudon?"

She looked up with a smile. "What would you like to know about me?"
she asked, with a sober directness, which, like her smile, was friendly
and brave. "You heard something last night. I am entirely willing to
tell you more. But is it not wise for us to know as little as possible
about each other?"

"Why, mademoiselle?"

She hesitated. "As we stand now," she explained slowly, "we have no
past nor future. We live in a fantasy. We are cold and hungry, but
life is so strange that we forget our bodies. It is all as unreal as a
mirage. When it is over, we part. If we part knowing nothing of each
other, it will all seem like a dream."

I thought a moment. "Then you think that we must guard against growing
interested in each other, mademoiselle?"

She looked at me gravely. "Yes. Do you not think so, monsieur?