n a painter, he must have painted; a poet, he must have celebrated in
silken verse. Three-and-thirty? No, he was only a lad this night. All
his illusions had come back again. At a word from this mysterious woman,
he would have started out on any fool's errand, to any fool's land.

And she? A whim, a fantastic, unaccountable whim; the whim of a woman
seeking forgetfulness, not counting the cost nor caring; simply a whim.
She had brought him here to crush him for his impertinence; and that
purpose was no longer in her mind. Was she sorry? Did he cause her some
uneasiness, some regret and sadness? It was too late. There could be no
Prince Charming in her world. He had tarried too long by the way. Not
that there was the least sentiment in her heart regarding him; but his
presence, his freshness, his frank honesty, these caused her to resort
to comparisons. It was too late indeed.

On the little table was a Tuscany brass lamp of three wicks, fed by
olive oil. It was sufficient to light the table, but the rest of the
room was sunk in darkness. He half understood that there was a definite
purpose in this semi-illumination: she had no wish that he should by
chance recognize anything familiar in this house. Dimly he could see the
stein-rack and the plate-shelf running around the walls. Sometimes, as
the light flickered, a stein or a plate stood out boldly, as if to
challenge his memory.

He watched her hands. The fingers were free from rings. Was she single
or married? The maid had called her signora; but that might have been a
disguise, like the mask and the patches of court-plaster.

"May I ask you one question?"

"No," promptly. There was something in his eyes that made her grow wary
of a sudden.

"Then I shan't ask it. I shall not ask you if you are married."

"And I shall not say one way or the other."

She smiled and he laughed quietly. He had put the question and she had
answered it.

Neither of them ate much of this elaborate dinner. A game like this
might easily dull the sharpest appetite. He studied her head, the curves
of her throat, the little gestures, the way her shoulders seemed to
narrow when she shrugged; and all these pictures he stored away for
future need. He would meet her again; a touch of prescience told him
this. When, where, did not matter.

A running conversation; a fencing match with words and phrases. Time
after time she touched him; but with all his skill he could not break
through her gu