came a step nearer, but did not take her hand, and when he leaned
toward her, she suddenly clasped her hands and rested her chin upon
them, in the old childish fashion he remembered so well.

"Does my Lily know why I crossed the Atlantic?"

A spasm of pain quivered over her features, and though he saw how
white her lips turned at that instant, her answer was clear, cold,
and distinct.

"Yes, sir. You came on your bridal tour. Is not your wife at Como?"

"I hope so. I believe so; I certainly expected to see her here."

He was smiling very proudly just then, but beginning to suspect that
he had tortured her cruelly by the tacit imposture to which he had
assented, his eyes dimmed at the thought of her suffering.

She misinterpreted the smile, and quickly rallied.

"Mr. Palma, I hope you brought Llora also with you?"

"No. Why should I? She is much better off at home with her mother."

"But, sir, I thought--I understood----"

She caught her breath, and a perplexed expression came into her
wistful deep eyes, as she met those, fixed laughingly upon her.

"You thought, you understood what? That after living single all these
years, I am at last foolish enough to want a wife? One to kiss, to
hold in my arms, to love even better than I love myself? Well, what
then? I do not deny it."

"And I hope, Mr. Palma, that she will make you very happy."

She spoke with the startling energy of desperation.

"Thank you, so do I. I believe, I know she will; I swear she shall!
Can you tell me my darling's name?"

"Yes, sir, it is no secret. All the world knows it is Mrs. Carew."

She was leaning heavily upon her womanly pride; how long would it
sustain her? Would it snap presently, and let her down for ever into
the dust of humiliation?

Mr. Palma laughed, and putting his hand under her chin, lifted the
face.

"All the world is very wise, and my ward quite readily accepted its
teachings. None but Olga suspected the truth. I would not marry
Brunella Carew, if she were the last woman left living on the wide
earth. I do not want a fashion-moth. I would not have the residue of
what once belonged to another. I want a tender, pure, sweet, fresh
white flower that I know, and have long watched expanding from its
pretty bud. I want my darling, whom no other man has kissed, who
never loved any one but me; who will come like the lily she is, and
shelter herself in my strong arms, and bloom out all her fragrant
loveliness in my heart