to me."

I interrupted her.

"Say no more, Zara!" I exclaimed; "I will do as you wish. When you are
gone, you say--"

"When I am gone," repeated Zara firmly, "and before you yourself leave
this house, you will see that particular statue destroyed. You will
thus do me a very great service."

"Well," I said, "and when are you coming back again? Before I leave
Paris?"

"I hope so--I think so," she replied evasively; "at any rate, we shall
meet again soon."

"Where are you going?" I asked.

She smiled. Such a lovely, glad, and triumphant smile!

"You will know my destination before to-night has passed away," she
answered. "In the meanwhile I have your promise?"

"Most certainly."

She kissed me, and as she did so, a lurid flash caught my eyes and
almost dazzled them. It was a gleam of fiery lustre from the electric
jewel she wore.

The day went on its usual course, and the weather seemed to grow
murkier every hour. The air was almost sultry, and when during the
afternoon I went into the conservatory to gather some of the glorious
Marechal Niel roses that grew there in such perfection, the intense
heat of the place was nearly insupportable. I saw nothing of Heliobas
all day, and, after the morning, very little of Zara. She disappeared
soon after luncheon, and I could not find her in her rooms nor in her
studio, though I knocked at the door several times. Leo, too, was
missing. After being alone for an hour or more, I thought I would pay a
visit to the chapel. But on attempting to carry out this intention I
found its doors locked--an unusual circumstance which rather surprised
me. Fancying that I heard the sound of voices within, I paused to
listen. But all was profoundly silent. Strolling into the hall, I took
up at random from a side-table a little volume of poems, unknown to me,
called "Pygmalion in Cyprus;" and seating myself in one of the
luxurious Oriental easy-chairs near the silvery sparkling fountain, I
began to read. I opened the book I held at "A Ballad of Kisses," which
ran as follows:

"There are three kisses that I call to mind,
And I will sing their secrets as I go,--
The first, a kiss too courteous to be kind,
Was such a kiss as monks and maidens know,
As sharp as frost, as blameless as the snow.

"The second kiss, ah God! I feel it yet,--
And evermore my soul will loathe the same,--
The toys and joys of fate I may forget,
But not the touch of that divided shame;