ise of the human will
in every voluntary motion, for a man who moves in his sleep seems to
move continuously like an animal, till he has changed his position and
rests again.

Lamberti made none of these reflections, and did not analyse the face he
could not help watching whenever the chance of conversation allowed him
to look at Cecilia without seeming to stare at her. He only tried to
discover why her face was so familiar to him.

"We have been in Paris all winter," said her mother, in answer to some
question of his.

"They have been in Paris all winter!" cried the Princess. "Think what
that means! The cold, the rain, the solitude! What in the world did you
do with yourselves?"

"Cecilia wished to continue her studies," answered the Countess
Fortiguerra.

"What sort of things have you been learning, Mademoiselle?" asked
Lamberti.

"I followed a course of lectures on philosophy at the Sorbonne, and I
read Nietzsche with a man who had known him," answered the young lady,
as naturally as if she had said that she had been taking lessons on the
piano.

A momentary silence followed, and everybody stared at the girl, except
her mother, who smiled pleasantly and looked from one to the other with
the expression which mothers of prodigies often assume, and which
clearly says: "I did it. Is it not perfectly wonderful?"

Then Monsieur Leroy laughed, in spite of himself.

"Hush, Doudou!" cried the Princess. "You are very rude!"

No one present chanced to know that she always called him Doudou when
she was in a good humour. Cecilia Palladio turned her head quietly,
fixed her eyes on him and laughed, deliberately, long, and very sweetly.
Monsieur Leroy met her gaze for a moment, then looked away and moved
uneasily on his low seat.

"What are you laughing at?" he asked, in a tone of annoyance.

"It seems so funny that you should be called Doudou--at your age,"
answered Cecilia.

"Really--" Monsieur Leroy looked at the Princess as if asking for
protection. She laughed good-humouredly, somewhat to Lamberti's
surprise.

"You are very direct with my friends, my dear," she said to Cecilia,
still smiling. The Countess Fortiguerra, not knowing exactly what to do,
also smiled, but rather foolishly.

"I am very sorry," said Cecilia, with contrition, and looking down. "I
really beg Monsieur Leroy's pardon. I could not help it."

But she had been revenged, for she had made him ridiculous.

"Not at all, not at all," he an