His Hour

She was not sure yet, but now thought his eyes were gray.

She could have asked him a number of questions she wanted answered, but

she refrained. He suddenly turned and looked at her full in the face.

He had been gazing fixedly at the sea, and these movements of quickness

were disconcerting, especially as Tamara found herself caught in the

act of studying his features.

"What on earth made you go to the Sphinx?" he asked.

Anger rose in Tamara; the inference was not flattering, in his speech,

or the tone in which he uttered it.

"To count the number of stones the creature is made of, of course," she

said. "Those technical things are what one would go for at that time of

night."

And now her companion rippled with laughter, infectious, joyous

laughter.

"Ah, you are not so stupid as I thought!" he said, frankly. "You looked

poetic and fine with that gauze scarf around your head sitting there--

and then afterwards. Wheugh! It was like a pretty wax doll. I regretted

having wasted the village on you. All that is full of meaning for me."

Tamara was interested in spite of her will to remain reserved, although

she resented the wax-doll part.

"Yes?"--he faltered.

"You can learn all the lessons you want in life from the Sphinx," he

went on. "What paltry atoms you and I are, and how little we matter to

anyone but ourselves! She is cruel, too, and does not hesitate to tear

one in pieces if she wishes and she could make one ready to get drunk

on blood."

Tamara rounded her sweet eyes.

"Then the village there, full of men with the passions of animals,

living from father to son forever the same, wailing for a death,

rejoicing at a birth, taking strong physical pleasure in their marriage

rights and their women, and beating them when they are tired; but you

are too civilized in your country to understand any of these things."

Tamara was stirred; she felt she ought to be shocked.

Contrary to her determination, she asked a question: "Then you are not civilized in yours?"

"Not nearly so badly," he said. "The primitive forces of life still

give us emotions, when we are not wild; when we are then it is the

jolliest hell."

Tamara was almost repulsed. How could one be so odd as this man? she

thought. Was he a type, or was he mad, or just only most annoyingly

attractive and different from any one else? She found herself thrilled.

Then with a subtle change he turned and almost tenderly wrapped the

rug, which had blown a little down, more securely round her.