rina?"

"Very well."

"I have had a touch of fever, Signora, or I should have come over to
the island again. I stayed too long in the sea the other day, or--" He
shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," said Hermione. "You are very pale to-night."

For the first time she looked at him closely, and saw that his face was
white, and that his big and boyish eyes held a tired and yet excited
expression.

"It is nothing. It has passed. And our friend--Emilio? How is he?"

A hardness had come into his voice. Hermione noticed it.

"We have not seen him lately. I suppose he has been busy."

"Probably. Emilio has much to do in Naples," said the Marchesino,
with an unmistakable sneer. "Do allow me to escort you to the island,
Signora."

They had reached the boat. Hermione shook her head and stepped in at
once.

"Then when may I come?"

"Whenever you like."

"To-morrow?"

"Certainly."

"At what time?"

Hermione suddenly remembered his hospitality and felt that she ought to
return it.

"Come to lunch--half-past twelve. We shall be quite alone."

"Signora, for loneliness with you and the Signorina I would give up
every friend I have ever had. I would give up--"

"Half-past twelve, then, Marchese. Addio!"

"A rivederci, Signora! A demain! Andrea, take care of the Signora. Treat
her as you would treat the Madonna. Do you hear?"

The boatman grinned and took off his cap, and the boat glided away
across the path of yellow light that was shed from the window of
Frisio's.

Hermione leaned back against the white cushions. She was thankful to
escape. She felt tired and confused. That dreadful music had distracted
her, that--and something else, her tricked expectation. She knew now
that she had been very foolish, perhaps even very fantastic. She had
felt so sure that Emile had written in that book--what?

As the boat went softly on she asked herself exactly what she had
expected to find written there, and she realized that her imagination
had, as so often before, been galloping like a frightened horse with the
reins upon its neck. And then she began to consider what he had written.

"La conscience, c'est la quantite de science innee que nous avons en
nous."

She did not know the words. Were they his own or another's? And had he
written them simply because they had chanced to come into his mind at
the moment, or because they expressed some underthought or feeling that
had surged up in him just then? She wished sh