ay from his clasp, and she
almost sobbed, "I can't, I can't. Oh, I would if I could--but I can't!"

Then she heard him say gently: "Give me an answer later--I am not such,
just now, that I can hold my own--I will wait till I am strong again.
Will you give me your answer then?" Half choking, she nodded her head in
assent and hurried from the room.

St. Anthony, the great Dane, who, since Giovanni's illness, had attached
himself to Nina, stalked after her. She went through the intervening
rooms into the picture gallery, and there dropped down upon a low marble
seat and took the big dog's head in her arms.

She believed in Giovanni's disinterestedness; he had given her every
reason to think he truly loved her. It seemed to her that she had seen
his real feeling grow gradually. If she could believe in any one _ever_,
she must believe in him. Even the astute little Zoya Olisco had
confirmed the impression by saying that all Rome knew that Giovanni
cared nothing for money. There had been a very rich girl--all the
fortune hunters were after her--and she was so strongly attracted to
Giovanni that she made no effort to disguise her preference for him. But
he showed no inclination to marry a rich wife.

These and many other things were enough to convince Nina that his love
was real, without the final proof when he had risked his life for her.
In mere gratitude she would have made the effort to care for him. And
yet the more she tried to encourage her sentiments, the more they
baffled her. From the first she had felt timid of something unknown in
Giovanni. She had thought herself in danger of being attracted too much,
but now she felt that, throughout, the fear had been of another sort, a
fear which she could not analyze.

"What is the matter with me?" she whispered brokenly to St. Anthony. "We
love Giovanni, don't we? We do! We do!" But her words were meaningless
sounds that echoed hollowly.

Then slowly she noted the great gallery filled with things flawless--the
mellow canvases of the old masters, the marvelous statuary, perfect even
in the brilliant light streaming through the eastern windows; and her
thoughts turned backwards to that day when the allure of antiquity had
most strongly held her--that day when she had first seen Giovanni dance.
As the recollection grew in vividness, she was again aware of the same
strange sensation that she had felt then. It was as though she were
living in a past age, with which she, as N