r in the crowd before his
bas-relief at the Salon; he would select some woman dressed in an
unusually smart spring gown and call her Bella to himself, until he saw
her turn.

Once indeed, there, on the edge of the crowd, leaning with her hands
upon the handle of her parasol, he was sure he saw her. The pose of the
body was charming, the turn of the head almost as haughty as his own
mother's, but the slenderness and the magnetism were Bella's own.

Antony chose this woman upon whom to fix his attention, and he thought
that when she would move the resemblance would be gone.

The young girl suddenly altered her pose, and Antony saw her fully; he
saw the proud beautiful face, piquant, alluring, a trifle sad; the
brilliant lips, the colour in the cheeks, like a snow-set peach, the
wonderful eyes, could belong to but one woman.

Separated from her by a little concourse of people, Antony could only
cry, "Bella!" to himself. He started eagerly toward the place where he
had seen her, but she vanished as the mirage on the desert's face.

What had he seen? A real woman, or only a trick of resemblance?

It was real enough to make him search the newspapers and the hotel lists
and the bankers. Now he could not think of her name without a mighty
emotion. If that were Bella, she was too lovely to be true! She _must_
be his, no matter at what price, no matter what her life might be.

A fortnight after he received in his mail a letter from America. The
address, "Mr. Thomas Rainsford," was in a round full hand, a handsome
hand; first he thought it a man's. He opened it with slight interest.
The paper exhaled an intangible odour; it was not perfume, but a
delicate scent which recalled to him, for some reason, or other, the
smell of the vines around the veranda-trellis in New Orleans. He read--

"Mr. Thomas Rainsford.

"DEAR SIR,--

"This will seem to be a very extraordinary letter, I know. I hardly
know how to write such a letter. When I was in Paris a few weeks
ago, I stood before the most beautiful piece of sculpture I have
ever seen. I do not know that any one could do a more wonderful, a
more deeply spiritual thing in clay or marble. But it is not what I
think about it in that way, which is of interest. It cannot be of
any interest to you, as you do not know me, nor is it for this that
I am writing to you. Again, I do not know how to tell you.

"Where did you get your i