* * * * *

And, at the same hour, across an ocean, another woman awoke to take up the ravelled threadings of her life again and, through another day, remember Louis Malcourt and all that he had left undone for kindness’ sake.

There were others, too, who were not likely to forget him, particularly those who had received, with some astonishment, a legacy apiece of one small Chinese gilded idol—­images all of the Pa-hsien or of Kwan-Yin, who rescues souls from hell with the mystic lotus-prayer, “Om mane padme hum.”

But the true Catholicism, which perplexed the eighteen legatees lay in the paradox of the Mohammedan inscriptions across each lotus written in Malcourt’s hand: 

“I direct my face unto Him who hath created.

“Who maketh His messengers with two and three and four pairs of wings.

“And thou shall see them going in procession.

“This is what ye are promised:  ’For the last hour will surely come; there is no doubt thereof; but the greater part of men believe it not.’

“Thus, facing the stars, I go out among them into darkness.

“Say not for me the Sobhat with the ninety-nine; for the hundredth pearl is the Iman—­pearl beyond praise, pearl of the five-score names in one, more precious than mercy, more priceless than compassion—­Iman!  Iman! thy splendid name is Death!”

So lingered the living memory of Malcourt among men—­a little while—­longer among women—­then faded as shadows die at dusk when the mala is told for the soul that waits the Rosary of a Thousand Beads.

* * * * *

In January the Ariani sailed with her owner aboard; but Hamil was not with him.

In February Constance Palliser wrote Hamil from Palm Beach: 

   “It is too beautiful here and you must come.

“As for Shiela, I do not even pretend to understand her.  I see her every day; to-day I lunched with Mrs. Cardross, and Shiela was there, apparently perfectly well and entirely her former lovely self.  Yet she has never yet spoken of you to me; and, I learn from Mrs. Cardross, never to anybody as far as she knows.

“She seems to be in splendid health; I have seen her swimming, galloping, playing tennis madly.  The usual swarm of devoted youth and smitten middle-age is in attendance.  She wears neither black nor colours; only white; nor does she go to any sort of functions.  At times, to me, she resembles a scarcely grown girl just freed from school and playing hard every minute with every atom of heart and soul in her play.

“Gray has an apology for a polo field and a string of ponies, and Shiela plays with the men—­a crazy, reckless, headlong game, in which every minute my heart is in my mouth for fear somebody will cannon into her, or some dreadful swing of a mallet will injure her for life.

   “But everybody is so sweet to her—­and it is delightful to see
   her with her own family—­their pride and tenderness for her, and
   her devotion to them.