fter some searching, produced a very beautiful
artificial gardenia, which Veronica pinned in her white bodice, with a
smile. She glanced at herself once more, and saw that the colour was
still in her cheeks, and she was satisfied with herself.

When she entered the drawing-room, the other three were already there,
and she saw the faces of Matilde and Bosio change as they caught sight of
the flower. Gregorio apparently knew nothing of the arrangement--another
instance of Matilde's tact which pleased Veronica. Matilde herself
was no longer pale. She had seen how desperate she looked and had put
a little rouge upon her cheeks so deftly and artistically that the young
girl did not at first detect the deception. But her features had still
been drawn and weary. They relaxed suddenly in a genuine smile when she
saw the gardenia. But Bosio grew paler, Veronica thought, and looked
very nervous. At table, he was opposite Veronica, and he reminded her
more than ever of Van Dyck's portraits, so that she wondered why she
had never before thought of the general resemblance. He talked less than
at luncheon, and sometimes his eyes rested on hers with an expression
which she could not understand. But there was admiration in it, as well
as something else. Veronica herself was animated, and had never looked
so well before, in the recollection of the other three.

After dinner Gregorio disappeared almost immediately, and at the end of
a quarter of an hour Matilde left the room, merely observing that she
was going to write letters and would come back when she had finished.
Bosio and Veronica were alone.

To her, it seemed to have come suddenly at the end, and she did not
quite realize how it was that she found herself standing on one side of
the fireplace, while he stood on the other.

They looked at each other a moment. Then Veronica smiled faintly, and
drew herself up--or lengthened herself--as slight young girls have a way
of doing when they are pleased, and she turned a little in the movement,
and glanced at the clock, still faintly smiling.

Bosio was watching her, and he could not help admiring her lithe figure
and small, well-poised head, that had a sort of girlish royalty of
carriage not at all connected with beauty; for she was not beautiful,
and she herself knew that there were times when she was almost ugly. He
saw and admired, and he cursed himself for what he meant to do. He was
not sure, even now, that he could do it.

T