For five months Zora wandered over the world--chiefly Italy--without an experience which might be called an adventure.

When the Literary Man from London crossed her mind she laughed him to scorn for a prophetic popinjay.
She had broken no man's heart, and her own was whole.

The tribes of Crim Tartary had exhibited no signs of worry and had left her unmolested.

She had furthermore taken rapturous delight in cathedrals, expensive restaurants, and the set pieces of fashionable scenery.

Rattenden had not a prophetic leg to stand on.
Yet she longed for the unattainable--for the elusive something of which these felicities were but symbols.