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'Yes, the books.' She spoke in tones which to his cherished vision of her were what finality is to despair. 'I read a great deal still—still.'

Her present listlessness did not relieve him, but incongruously made him more anxious for her. He tried to speak as casually as a stranger.

'I remember them, your wide and esoteric explorations! Am I to take it that you are wearying of wandering? Or are you only temporarily abashed by the illimitable wastes, you're waiting to start forth again, afresh—you see the minarets of your city, lost in vapour, and you pause; and its riddle, while you rest, calls again. Its riddle....' As he went on, the words seemed to flow automatically, as though he were drunk with a surprise of enchantment, while he watched her happy and tired face.

'The riddle,' she murmured. They were silent a little. 'That alone used to serve as reward, but it is long since the penance.'

'I am not a riddle, but a man,' he reminded her. 'Come, are you so quiet because you think I am a ghost? You want proof!' But he did not touch her. 'I should inquire about your parents, the circumstances of our life which nobody else knows.'