h slitted eyes. She withdrew when he arose to receive
the unaffected homage of his hosts. He was curious. Monsieur Pelletier,
who looked like a Brazilian parrot in beak and hue, cackled:--

"That's Cilli, our Japanese. She was born in Germany, and is my niece's
governess. Quite musical, too, I should say so. Just look at my two
Maltese cats! I call them Tristan and Isolde because they make noises in
the night. Don't you _loathe_ Wagner?"

It was time to go. Enamoured, Davos took his leave, promising to call
the next forenoon before he went back to Ischl. He held her fingers for
a brief moment and longed to examine their tips,--the artist still
struggled to subdue the man,--but the pressure he received was so
unmistakable that he hurried away, fearing to betray his emotion. He
hovered in the vicinity of the house, longing for more music. He was
disappointed. For a full hour he wandered through the dusty lanes in the
faded light of an old moon. When he reached his chamber, it was long
past one o'clock; undaunted, his romantic fervour forced him to the
window, and he watched the shining lake. He fell asleep thinking of
Constantia. But he dreamed of Cilli, the Japanese maid with the hideous
eyes.

III

Not only that morning, but every morning for two weeks, did Marco Davos
visit Alt-Aussee. He came down from Ischl on the earliest train, and
some nights he stopped at the hotel near his new friends. After a few
visits he saw little of the father and uncle, and he was not sorry--they
were old bores with their archaic anecdotes of dead pianists. Two
maniacs on the subject of music, Davos wished them to the devil after he
had known them twenty-four hours. His passion had reached the acute key.
He could not eat or drink in normal fashion, and no sooner had he left
the girl than the sky became sombre, his pulse weakened, and he longed
to return to her side to tell her something he had forgotten. He did
this several times, and hesitated in his speech, reddened, and left her,
stumbling over the grass like a lame man. Never such a crazy wooer,
never a calmer maiden. She looked unutterable sentiment, but spoke it
not.

When he teased her about her music, she became a statue. She was too
timid to play before artists; her only master had been her father. Once
more he had heard the piano as he returned unexpectedly, and almost
caught her; he saw her at the instrument, but some instinct must have
warned her that she was being spie