said the
woman. "You will have one great passion in your life. Twice the woman
will come in your path. The first time you will cross the seas to her,
the second time she comes to you--and--ah!--"

She reached again for the hand of the Marquise and compared them. The
two young people looked, not at her, but at each other.

In the eyes of the Marquise was a certain petulant rebellion, and in
his the appealing, the assuring, the ardent gaze that met and answered
her.

"It is peculiar--this," continued the woman. "I have never seen
anything like it before; the same mark, the same, Mademoiselle,
Monsieur; you will each know tragedies in your experience, and the
lives are linked together."

"No!"--and again the Marquise drew her hand away. "It is no longer
amusing," she remarked in English, "when those people think it their
duty to pair couples off like animals in the ark."

Her face had flushed, though she tried to look indifferent. The
Egyptian had stepped back and was regarding her curiously.

"Do not cross the seas, Mademoiselle; all of content will be left
behind you."

"Wait," and the Monsieur Incognito put out his hand. "You call the
lady 'Mademoiselle,' but your guess has not been good;" and he pointed
to a plain ring on the hand of the Marquise.

"I call her Mademoiselle because she never has been a wife, and--she
never will be a wife. There are marriages without wedding rings, and
there are wedding rings without marriages; pardon!--" and passing
between the ferns and palms she was gone.

"That is true!" half whispered the Marquise, looking up at him; "her
words almost frighten me."

"They need not," and the caress in his eyes made her drop her own;
"all your world of Paris knows the romance of your marriage. You are
more of a celebrity than you may imagine; my knowledge of that made
me fear to approach you here."

"The fear did not last long," and she laughed, the coquetry of the sex
again uppermost. "For how many seconds did you tremble on the
threshold?"

"Long enough to avoid any friends who had planned to present me."

"And why?"

"Lest it might offend to have the person thrust on you whom you would
not know among less ceremonious surroundings."

"Yet you came alone?"

"I could not help that, I _had_ to see you, even though you refused to
recognize me; I had to see you. Did I not prophecy there in the wood
that we should meet again? Even the flowers you gave me I--"

"Monsieur, no more!"