eemed that at that moment every shape, every colour, every perfume
gave forth the essential and delicate spirit of its being. And yet _she_
came not, _she_ came not!

For the first time, the thought of her husband presented itself to him.

Elena was no longer free. Some months after her abrupt departure from
Rome, she had renounced the agreeable liberty of widowhood to marry an
English nobleman, Lord Humphrey Heathfield. Andrea had seen the
announcement of the marriage in a society paper in the October following
and had heard a world of comment on the new Lady Humphrey in every
country house he stayed in during the autumn. He remembered also having
met Lord Humphrey some half a score of times during the preceding winter
at the Saturdays of the Princess Giustiniani-Bandini, or in the public
sale-rooms. He was a man of about forty, with colourless fair hair, bald
at the temples, an excessively pale face, a pair of piercing light eyes
and a prominent forehead, on which a network of veins stood out. He had
his name of Heathfield from that lieutenant-general who was the hero of
the defence of Gibraltar and afterwards immortalised by the brush of Sir
Joshua Reynolds.

What part had this man in Elena's life? What ties, beyond the convention
of marriage, bound her to him? What transformations had the physical and
moral contact of this husband brought to pass in her?

These enigmas rose tumultuously before him, making his pain so
intolerable, that he started up with the instinctive bound of a man who
has been stabbed unawares. He crossed the room to the ante-chamber and
listened at the door which he had left ajar. It was on the stroke of a
quarter to five.

The next moment he heard footsteps on the stair, the rustle of skirts
and a quick panting breath. A woman was coming up hurriedly. His heart
beat with such vehemence that--his nerves all unstrung by his long
suspense--he felt hardly able to stand on his feet. The steps drew
nearer, there was a long-drawn sigh--a step upon the landing--at the
door--Elena entered.

'O Elena--at last!'

There was in that cry such a profound accent of agony endured, that it
brought to Elena's lips an indescribable smile, mingled of pleasure and
pity. He took her by her ungloved right hand and drew her into the room.
She was still a little out of breath, and under her black veil a faint
flush diffused itself over her whole face.

'Forgive me, Andrea! I could not get away any sooner--there