He looked at her intently, almost boldly, she thought, and before she dropped her eyes she had made a discovery.  The thing stamped upon his face and burning in his eyes was not world-weariness, disappointment, despair.  She could not tell what it was, yet; that it was none of these, she knew.  It was not unrelated to experience, but transcended it.  There was an element of purpose in it, of determination, almost—­she would have believed—­of hope.  That Mrs. Maitland nor any other woman was a part of it she became equally sure.  Nothing could have been more commonplace than the conversation which began, and yet it held for her, between the lines as in the biography, the thrill of interest.  She was a woman, and embarked on a voyage of discovery.

“Do you live in New York?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Honora, “since this autumn.”

“I’ve been away a good many years,” he said, in explanation of his question.  “I haven’t quite got my bearings.  I can’t tell you how queerly this sort of thing affects me.”

“You mean civilization?” she hazarded.

“Yes.  And yet I’ve come back to it.”

Of course she did not ask him why.  Their talk was like the starting of a heavy train—­a series of jerks; and yet both were aware of an irresistible forward traction.  She had not recovered from her surprise in finding herself already so far in his confidence.

“And the time will come, I suppose, when you’ll long to get away again.”

“No,” he said, “I’ve come back to stay.  It’s taken me a long while to learn it, but there’s only one place for a man, and that’s his own country.”

Her eyes lighted.

“There’s always so much for a man to do.”

“What would you do?” he asked curiously.

She considered this.

“If you had asked me that question two years ago—­even a year ago—­I should have given you a different answer.  It’s taken me some time to learn it, too, you see, and I’m not a man.  I once thought I should have liked to have been a king amongst money changers, and own railroad and steamship lines, and dominate men by sheer power.”

He was clearly interested.

“And now?” he prompted her.

She laughed a little, to relieve the tension.

“Well—­I’ve found out that there are some men that kind of power can’t control—­the best kind.  And I’ve found out that that isn’t the best kind of power.  It seems to be a brutal, barbarous cunning power now that I’ve seen it at close range.  There’s another kind that springs from a man himself, that speaks through his works and acts, that influences first those around him, and then his community, convincing people of their own folly, and that finally spreads in ever widening circles to those whom he cannot see, and never will see.”

She paused, breathing deeply, a little frightened at her own eloquence.  Something told her that she was not only addressing her own soul—­she was speaking to his.