seemed up there on the little hill-top. He gave his luggage to the
porter from the Grand and followed him on foot to the hotel, which was
only a dozen steps from the landing. No, he would not dine at the hotel,
all but empty at this time of year. He was dining at the Villa
Serbelloni above. He dressed quickly, but with the lover's care and the
lover's doubt. Less than an hour after leaving the boat he stepped forth
from the gardens and took the path up to the villa. The bloom on the
wings of the passing swallow, the clouds on the face of the smooth
waters, the incense from the flowers now rising upon the vanished sun,
the tinted crests encircling, and the soft wind which murmured drowsily
among the overhanging branches, all these made the time and place as
perfect as a lover's mind could fancy.

Sonia, Sonia; his step took the rhythm of it as he climbed. Sonia,
Sonia; the very silence seemed to voice it. And she was waiting for him
up there. How would she greet him, knowing that nothing would have
brought him to her side but the hope of love? With buoyant step he
turned by the porter's lodge and strode down the broad roadway to the
villa, a deepening green arch above him.

Handsome he was not; he was more. With his thin, high-bred face, his
fine eyes, his slender, graceful figure, he presented that type of
gentleman to whom all women pay unconscious homage, whether low-born or
high, and in whom the little child places its trust and confidence.

He arrived shortly. As he entered the glass-inclosed corridor the
concierge rose from his chair and bowed. Hillard inclined his head and
went on. There was no one in the dining-room. In the restaurant there
was no one but a lonely Russian countess, who had spent part of the year
at the villa for more than a decade. He doffed his hat as he passed
through the room and gained the picturesque terrace. Afar he saw a table
spread under the great oak. A woman sat by it. She was gazing down the
winding terraces toward the Lecco. It was still daylight, and he would
have known that head of hair among the ten thousand houris of heaven.
Softly, softly! he murmured to his heart, now become insurgent.

Whatever may have been the dream she was following, she dismissed it
upon hearing his step, strangely familiar. She did not rise, but she
extended her hand, a grave inquiry in her slumbrous eyes. With equal
gravity he clasped the hand, but held back the impulse to kiss it. He
was not quite