ry soul.

'Are you going to the French Embassy to-morrow evening?' she asked him.

'Are you?' Andrea asked in return.

'I am.'

'So am I.'

They smiled at one another like two lovers.

'Sit down,' she added as she sank into a seat.

The seat was far from the fire, with its back to the curve of a grand
piano which was partially draped in some rich stuff. At one end of the
divan, a tall bronze crane held in his beak a tray hanging by three
chains like one side of a pair of scales, and on it lay a new book and a
little Japanese scimitar--a _waki-gashi_--the scabbard and hilt
encrusted with silver chrysanthemums.

Elena took up the book, which was only half cut, read the title, and
then replaced it on the tray which swung to and fro. The scimitar fell
to the ground. As both she and Andrea stooped to pick it up, their hands
met. She straightened herself up and examined the beautiful weapon with
some curiosity, retaining it in her hand while Andrea talked about the
new novel, insinuating into his remarks general arguments upon love; and
her fingers wandered absently over the chasing of the weapon, her
polished nails seeming a repetition of the delicate gems that sparkled
in her rings.

Presently, after a pause, Elena said without looking at him: 'You are
very young--have you often been in love?'

He answered by another question--'Which do you consider the truest,
noblest way of love--to imagine you have discovered every aspect of the
eternal Feminine combined in one woman, or to run rapidly over the lips
of woman as you run your fingers over the keys of a piano, till, at
last, you find the sublime chord of harmony?'

'I really cannot say--and you?'

'Nor I either--I am unable to solve the great problem of sentiment.
However, by personal instinct, I have followed the latter plan and have
now, I fear, struck the grand chord--judging, at least, by an inward
premonition.'

'You fear?'

'_Je crains ce que j'espere._'

He instinctively employed this language of affected sentiment to cloak
his really strong emotion, and Elena felt herself caught by his voice as
in a golden net and drawn forcibly out of the life surrounding them.

'Her Excellency the Princess di Micigliano!' announced a footman.

'Count di Gissi!'

'Madame Chrysoloras!'

'The Marchese and the Marchesa Massa d'Alba!'

The rooms began to fill rapidly. Long shimmering trains swept over the
deep red carpet, white shoulders emerged from bodices