"Tu mihi, tu certe (memini), Graecine, negabas,
Uno posse aliquem tempore amare duas."

When I had heard all this, I questioned Guy about his own affairs. He
was not very communicative, though he seemed perfectly happy and hopeful
as to the future. He said that his marriage was not to take place till
the autumn, when Miss Brandon's brother (they were orphans) was expected
to return from India. I could not help asking what Flora Bellasys
thought of it.

Livingstone bit his lip and frowned slightly as he answered, "Well,
there _was_ a scene--rather a tempestuous one, to speak the truth, but
we are perfectly good friends now. I wonder if she ever really expected
me to marry her? She is the most amusing person alive to flirt with, but
as for serious measures--" He shrugged his shoulders expressively.
"Perhaps she _has_ something to complain of; but if she has any
conscience at all, she ought to recognize the _lex talionis_."

I was not convinced or satisfied, but it was useless to pursue the
subject then.

"Will you ride to-day?" Guy asked. "There are always horses for you
here. I should like to introduce you to Constance. We shall be in the
Park about five."

I accepted willingly, and left him soon afterward.

A little after the hour he had named I saw Livingstone's tall figure
turn the corner of Kensington Gardens, riding on Miss Brandon's right;
on her left was her uncle, Mr. Vavasour, her usual escort.

She was rarely lovely, certainly, as I was sure she would be, for Guy's
taste in feminine beauty was undisputed. Her features were delicate, but
very clearly cut; the nose and chin purely Grecian in their outline; the
dark gray eyes met you with an earnest, true expression, as if they had
nothing to conceal. Her broad Spanish hat suited her well, shading as it
did cheeks slightly flushed by exercise, and shining tresses of that
color which with us is nameless, and which across the Channel they
call--_blond cendre_. Her hand was strikingly perfect, even in its
gauntlet. It might have been modeled from that famous marble fragment of
which the banker-poet was so proud, and which Canova kissed so often.

There is a face which always reminds me of hers, though the figure in
the portrait is far more matured and developed than Constance's willowy
form--the picture of Queen Joanna of Naples in the Palazzo Doria.

I have stood before it long, trying in vain to read the riddle of the
haughty lineaments, and se