We  parted — of  course  ;  but  not  in  weariness,  not  in
the  grey  staleness  of  fatigue  and  boredom.  No  ;  but
in  a  splendid  wreck  of  wrath  and  jealousy  and  hatred.
We  did  not  run  aground  tamely  ;  we  split  in  vehemence
on  the  very  rock  of  discord.  She  would  not  come  for
a  letter."

"  Is  she  in  Paris  ?  "  asked  O'Neill.
"  No,  in  Spain,"  answered  Regnault.  "  At  Ronda,
in  a  great  house  on  the  edge  of  the  hill,  a  house  of
small  windows  and  strong  doors.  She  is  religious,
Lola  is ;  she  fears  hell.  Let  me  see ;  she  must  be
near  to  fifty  now.  It  is  twenty  years  and  more  since
I  saw  her."

"  But  if  I  wrote,"  began  O'Neill  again.
"  She  would  not  come  for  a  letter,"  persisted  Reg-
nault. "  What  would  you  write  ?  '  He  is  dying,'
you  would  say.  '  Poof  !  '  she  would  answer,  '  he  has
been  dead  this  twenty  years  to  me.' '

"  Well,  then,  what  do  you  suggest  ?  "

Regnault  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  up  sharply.
He  stretched  out  one  long  slender  hand  in  a  sudden
gesture  of  urgency.  His  face,  upon  the  moment,
recovered  its  wonted  vivacity.
"  Go  to  her,"  he  said.    "  Go  to  her,  O'Neill.     You


LOLA  185

are  young  and  long-legged  ;  you  have  the  face  of  one
to  whom  adventures  are  due.  She  will  receive  you.
