The Times; but all the other thousands would never know of it. There's no light in London, there's no air, there's no sound; it's only darkness and smell and noise. No wonder you want to forget when you live there, and I've had splendid times—forgetting. But I wouldn't change it for this—this waking in the morning and feeling another day to be conscious of everything, another day to see the sky and the clouds, another day to feel the wind from the sea on your face. I remember so well the feeling of waking in London, the counting up what things could be done to make the time wear out until it came to the priceless hours of sleep and utter oblivion. Is oblivion right? What I want to say is forgetfulness, but I've said it so often."

She stopped, breathless almost, with her cheeks flushed, her eyes alight. I never heard her talk like that before. I shall probably never hear her talk like it again. Women are unexpected creatures; far more unexpected are they than incomprehensible. It had never been in the training of her to express herself; wherefore, in her own quaint ways, she had thought these things out in silence to herself, sometimes speaking them aloud in the mornings as she dressed, at night when she was going to bed. Cruikshank tells me she is one of those who talks incessantly to herself when alone. Sometimes he has thought she has been in conversation with some one, but on going to her room has found her alone, doing her hair, holding an animated argument with her reflection in the mirror.

But it was not so much the sudden expression of her thoughts and her philosophy that arrested my interest. It was the philosophy itself. Something echoed in me that it was true; that she had found for me the secret of my discontentment. I wanted to pursue it then, at once; for philosophy is an elusive thing. Often your fingers may clutch just the hem of its garment and still it escapes your grasp.

"Then here," said I, "do you never forget? Are you always remembering—always being conscious?"

She nodded her head emphatically.

"Always."

"How about winter? The lark doesn't soar in winter. There are no flowers—all the birds are frightened and hungry. You never see the sea or feel the sun like this in winter. Don't you want to forget then? Wouldn't you be glad of a theatre or a restaurant—a street with crowds of people, a gay glittering of lights or the noise of life? Isn't the whole world too still in winter? Don't you want to forget then that you're just one little solitary 

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