"Hurrah!" shouted he, waving his hat triumphantly over his head. Nice, of course. It was convenient for Father Saint-Simon, who could enter this way and prepare in the little room before going up the narrow stair to the chapel above where the nuns waited. This time she feinted as his point came up to deflect her own, and disengaging, passed under and cut at his cheek. She lived, he noted, very carelessly. It was surely odd that her thought should pick up that picture and recast it so vividly. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone.
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