ed to the subject of his departure. It was still early in the
week. She inquired if Saturday would be too soon to begin his journey.
No: he felt it, too--the longer they delayed, the harder the parting
would be.

"Have you thought yet where you will go?" she asked.

"I must begin with a sea-voyage," he replied. "Long railway journeys,
in my present state, will only do me harm. The difficulty is where to
go to. I have been to America; India is too hot; Australia is too far.
Benjulia has suggested Canada."

As he mentioned the doctor's name, her hand mechanically pressed his
arm.

"That strange man!" she said. "Even his name startles one; I hardly know
what to think of him. He seemed to have more feeling for the monkey than
for you or me. It was certainly kind of him to take the poor creature
home, and try what he could do with it. Are you sure he is a great
chemist?"

Ovid stopped. Such a question, from Carmina, sounded strange to him.
"What makes you doubt it?" he said.

"You won't laugh at me, Ovid?"

"You know I won't!"

"Now you shall hear. We knew a famous Italian chemist at Rome--such
a nice old man! He and my father used to play piquet; and I looked at
them, and tried to learn--and I was too stupid. But I had plenty of
opportunities of noticing our old friend's hands. They were covered
with stains; and he caught me looking at them. He was not in the least
offended; he told me his experiments had spotted his skin in that way,
and nothing would clean off the stains. I saw Doctor Benjulia's
great big hands, while he was giving you the brandy--and I remembered
afterwards that there were no stains on them. I seem to surprise you."

"You do indeed surprise me. After knowing Benjulia for years, I have
never noticed, what you have discovered on first seeing him."

"Perhaps he has some way of cleaning the stains off his hands."

Ovid agreed to this, as the readiest means of dismissing the subject.
Carmina had really startled him. Some irrational connection between the
great chemist's attention to the monkey, and the perplexing purity of
his hands, persisted in vaguely asserting itself in Ovid's mind.
His unacknowledged doubts of Benjulia troubled him as they had never
troubled him yet. He turned to Carmina for relief.

"Still thinking, my love?"

"Thinking of you," she answered. "I want you to promise me
something--and I am afraid to ask it."

"Afraid? You don't love me, after all!"

"Then I will say it