inked themselves in his grasp; her eyes--ah!--those eyes
had told him that she loved him. Loved him!--why not?

And Enrica!--the thought of Enrica pierced through him like the stab
of a knife. Nobili sprang to his feet, pressed both hands to his
bosom, then sank down again, utterly bewildered. Enrica!--He had
forgotten her! He, Nobili, was it possible? Forgotten her!--A pale
plaintive face rose up before him, with soft, pleading eyes. There was
the little head, with its tangled meshes of yellow curls, the slight
girlish figure, the little feet. "Enrica! my Enrica!" he cried aloud,
so palpable did her presence seem--"I love you, I love you only!"
He dashed, as it were, Nera's image from him. She had tempted
him--tempted him with all the fullness of her beauty, tempted him--and
he had yielded! On a sudden it came over him. Yes, she had tempted
him. She had followed him--pursued him rather. Wherever he went, there
Nera was before him. He recalled it all. And how he had avoided her
with the avoidance of an instinct! He clinched his fists as he thought
of it. What devil had possessed him to fall headlong into the snare?
What was Nera--or any other woman--to him now? If he had been obliged
to dance with her, why had he yielded to her?

"I will never speak to her again," was his instant resolve. But the
next moment he remembered that he had been indirectly the cause of an
accident which might have been fatal. He must see her once more if
she were visible--or, if not, he must see her mother. Common humanity
demanded this. Then he would set eyes on her no more. He had almost
come to hate her, for the spell she had thrown over him.

But for Enrica he would have left Lucca altogether for a time. What
had passed that evening would be the subject of general gossip. He
remembered with shame--and as he did so the blood rushed over his face
and brow--how openly he had displayed his admiration. He remembered
the hot glances he had cast upon Nera. He remembered how he had leaned
entranced over her chair; how he had pressed her to him in the fury of
that wild waltz, her white arms entwined round him--the fragrance
of the red roses she wore in her hair mounting to his brain! At the
moment he had been too much entranced to observe what was passing
about him. Now he recalled glances and muttered words. The savage
look Ruspoli had cast on him, when he led her up to him in one of the
figures of the cotillon; how Malatesta had grinned at him-