of her handkerchief was sticking
out of the pocket. Her opulent hair, twisted on top of her head and the
voluptuous curves that the silk was taking in certain parts of her
masculine attire were the only things that announced the woman.

The captain forgot his breakfast, enthusiastic over this novelty. She
was a second Freya,--a page, an adorable, freakish novelty.... But she
repelled his caresses, obliging him to seat himself.

She had entered with a questioning expression in her eyes. She was
feeling the disquietude of every woman on her second amorous interview.
She was trying to guess his impressions, to convince herself of his
gratitude, to be certain that the fascinations of the first hours had
not been dissipated during her absence.

While the sailor was again attacking his breakfast with the familiarity
of a lover who has achieved his ends and no longer needs to hide and
poetize his grosser necessities, she seated herself on an old _chaise
longue_, lighting a cigarette.

She cuddled into this seat, her crossed legs forming an angle within
the circle of one of her arms. Then she leaned her head on her knees,
and in this position smoked a long time, with her glance fixed on the
sea. He guessed that she was about to say something interesting,
something that was puckering her mental interior, struggling to come
out.

Finally she spoke with deliberation, without taking her eyes off the
gulf. From time to time she would stop this contemplation in order to
fasten her eyes on Ulysses, measuring the effect of her words. He
stopped occupying himself definitely with the breakfast tray,
foreseeing that something very important was coming.

"You have sworn that you will do for me whatever I ask you to do....
You do not wish to lose me forever."

Ulysses protested. Lose her?... He could not live without her.

"I know your former life; you have told me all about it.... You know
nothing about me and you ought to know about me--now that I am really
yours."

The sailor nodded his head; nothing could be more just.

"I have deceived you, Ulysses. I am not Italian."

Ferragut smiled. If that was all the deception consisted of!... From
the day in which they had spoken together for the first time going to
Paestum, he had guessed that what she had told him about her
nationality was false.

"My mother was an Italian. I swear it.... But my father was not...."

She stopped a moment. The sailor listened to her with interest