divided her time between Brussels and Italy. Only a month
before, at the end of March, at Brussels, death had claimed the old
governess, with whom she had lived. Neither Giovanni Selva nor his
wife had been able to come to Noemi at this great crisis, for Selva was
seriously ill at the time. Jeanne Dessalle, who had become much attached
to Noemi, persuaded her brother to undertake the journey to Belgium,
a country with which he was hitherto unacquainted, and then offered to
take the Selvas' place in Brussels. It thus happened that towards the
end of April Noemi was with the Dessalles at Bruges. They occupied
a small villa on the shore of the little mirror of water called "Lac
d'Amour." Carlino had fallen in love with Bruges and especially with the
Lac d'Amour, the name of which he contemplated giving to the novel
he dreamed of writing. As yet, however, the novel existed only in
his brain, while he lived in the pleasant anticipation of one day
astonishing the world with an exquisite and original work of art.

"_En tout cas_," Noemi replied--"not with all my heart."

"Why?"

"Because I am thinking of giving my heart to another person."

"To whom?"

"To a monk."

Jeanne shuddered, and Noemi, to whom her friend had confided the story
of her hopeless love for the man who had disappeared, buried in the
hidden solitude of a cloister, trembled lest she had erred in thus
lightly introducing a subject with which her mind was much occupied.

"By the way, what about Memling," she said, colouring violently, "we
were going to talk about Memling."

She spoke in French, and Jeanne answered gently:

"You know you must speak Italian."

Her eyes were so sad and despairing that Noemi took no notice of her
reproof, and continued in French, saying many endearing things, and
begging for a loving word and a kiss. Both were willingly bestowed.
Noemi did not at once succeed in restoring her friend to her usual calm;
but Jeanne, smoothing back Noemi's hair from her brow with both hands,
and following the caressing gesture with her eyes, begged her gently not
to be afraid that she had wounded her. Sad she was indeed, but that was
no new thing. True she was never gay. This Noemi admitted, but to-day
the cloud of sorrow seemed heavier than ever. Perhaps it was the fault
of _l'Intruse_. Jeanne said, "Indeed it must be so," but with a look and
an accent that implied that _l'Intruse_ who had made her so sad was not
the imaginary being in Ma