d seen the obsequious movement of these
well-trained servants.

"Tell me, Douglas," at last the Countess said, glancing down kindly at
me, "why you are so silent and _distrait_. This is our first evening
here, and yet you are sad and forgetful, even of me."

What a blind fool I was not to see the innocence and love in her eyes!

"Countess--" I began, and paused uncertain.

"Sir to you!" she returned, making me a little bow in acknowledgment of
the title.

"Lucia," I went on, taking no notice of her frivolity, "I thought--I
thought--that is, I imagined--that your brother--that others would be
here as well as I--"

I got no further. I saw something sweep across her face. Her eyes
darkened. Her face paled. The thin curved nostrils whitened at the
edges. I paused, astonished at the tempest I had aroused by my faltering
stupidities. Why could I not take what the gods gave?

"I see," she said bitterly: "you reproach me with bringing you here as
my guest, alone. You think I am bold and abandoned because I dreamed of
an Eden here with friendship and truth as dwellers in it. I saw a new
and perfect life; and with a word, here in my own house, and before you
have been an hour my guest, you insult me--"

"Lucia, Lucia," I pleaded, "I would not insult you for the world--I
would not think a thought--speak a word--dishonouring to you for my
life--"

"You have--you have--it is all ended--broken!" she said, standing
up--"all broken and thrown down!"

She made with her hands the bitter gesture of breaking.

"Listen," she said, while I stood amazed and silent. "I am no girl. I am
older than you, and know the world. It is because I dreamed I saw that
which I thought truer and purer in you than the conventions of life that
I asked you to come here--"

"Lucia, Lucia, my lady, listen to me," I pleaded, trying to take her
hand. She put me aside with the single swift, imperious movement which
women use when their pride is deeply wounded.

"That lady"--she pointed within to where the silent dame of years was
tinkling unconcernedly on the keys--"is my dead husband's mother. Surely
she abundantly supplies the proprieties. And now you--you whom I thought
I could trust, spoil my year--spoil my life, slay in a moment my love
with reproach and scorn!"

She walked to the door, turned and said--"You, whom I trusted, have done
this!" Then she threw out her hands in an attitude of despair and scorn,
and disappeared.

I sat long with m