ing I want to say to you," Vanno began. "Will you come
with me where we can speak alone, without being interrupted?"

"I--I am engaged to four partners for the next dance," Mary stammered,
laughing a little. She wished to hear what he had to say; she wished to
stay with him, yet his voice made her afraid. And it was true that she
did not like to break her promise.

"I beg that you will come with me," Vanno persisted. He did not say that
he would not make her late for the others. He meant to take her away
from them altogether, if he could.

"Then--I will come, for a few minutes," she consented. "But--where?"

"I will take you on the bridge," he said. "You will not be cold, for I
know they've had it roofed over with flags for to-night. Mrs. Holbein
told me. There will be room only for you and me, for I shall let no one
else come."

Perhaps never before had Mary been so torn between two desires, except
when she wished to leave the convent, yet longed to stay. Now she did
not want to go on the bridge with this sombre-eyed man who spoke as if
he were taking her away from the world: and yet she did want to go, far
more than she wanted not to go. If anything had happened at this moment
to part them, all the rest of her life she would have wondered what she
had missed.

Mary knew nothing about the bridge of a vessel, or what it was for; but
when she had mounted some steps she found herself on a narrow parapet
walled in with canvas up to the height of her waist. Above her head was
a tight-drawn canopy made of an enormous flag; and on the white floor,
wedged tightly against the canvas wall, were pots containing long
rose-vines that made a drapery of leaves and flowers. Here and there
folds of the great flag were looped back with wooden shields, gilded and
painted with coats of arms--the crest of the Holbeins, no doubt,
invented to order at great expense. These loopings were like curtains
which left square, open apertures; and as Mary looked toward the shore
the balmy night air brushed against her hot cheeks like cool wings.

"I don't know, I don't suppose it's possible--no, it can't be possible
that it should be with you as it is with me," Vanno said, in a low voice
which sounded to her ears suppressed and strange, as if he kept back
some secret passion, perhaps anger. "Ever since the first moment I saw
you standing on the platform of the train at Marseilles, looking down
like Juliet from her balcony, I have felt as if I'd